Amputation

Rain splattered on the back of his neck. Water pooled at the corner of the yard where a drainage hole was inadequate for the quantity sucking at its tiny opening. There had been too much rain this year, but it wouldn’t stop, no matter how much he wished for it.

His mind was dark, as goopy as the stalks that had fallen from the elephant ear plant, rotted into a pulp that was plastered across the concrete path. Slippery stuff covered the ground, decomposing life that would nurture the soil, he supposed. He couldn’t stop thinking of the decay in his own body. The yeasty skin and rank smell between his toes, the crevices filled with bacteria after fifty years on the planet.

He should clean the yard. He should stop flopping on the sofa every night, sipping topaz-colored liquid from a sparkling glass, a slap in the face for his decrepit condition. How had his life skipped over that image on the pages of Cigar Aficionado, hair that grew from a scalp that was scrubbed free of dead skin, clothes draped over a lean, muscled form, an easy smile? The photograph was air-brushed, but it sold him that sixty-five dollar bottle of scotch.

He walked to the corner of the yard. Floating in the backed up water was a plastic figure. A toy that one of those skinny, loud girls next door had tossed over the fence. He picked it up. It wore a hard plastic skirt and a body-hugging turquoise tee shirt.

He pinched the arm between his fingers and bent it out to the side. In his own shoulder, he could feel the tearing pain. Applying more pressure he pushed until the arm snapped away from the joint. The arm was as thin as a straw between his fingers. He let it fall into the water where it floated aimlessly. He tossed the one-armed figure over the fence and knew he was a bad person. He bent and fished the arm out of the water, cradled it in his palm. Too late now to undo the destruction.

Slowly, he eased himself down, first to a squat, then sitting in the three-inch deep slough. Cold water quickly saturated his pants, numbing his skin. He wanted her back. And in contrast to the water his tears were warm and soft as spring rain.

© 2010 Cathryn Grant

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