Terry Sforza

boy reading

My mittens were gone. My books were gone. My memories kept once in a thimble by my bedstead, also gone. All the world was gray, below and above. And everything so gray was luminous. There were hands here and there, arms reaching out, and they were moving game pieces, chess players, making half-knight moves just above the board. They neither had faces nor destinies. I had shaved and nicked myself, and in the mirror was an opposite man who made the same wince with the same wrinkles who had the same tiny red line of blood running down his jaw line who did not feel a thing. He only watched. A man like that had known where fell the mittens in the snow, where went the pages fluttered somewhere, where all that knowledge was spent. He had known the contents of my life now dumped and swirling in time’s ocean perhaps where even I knew everything was shining. Though the paper bag full of paper tickets I had won and which had sat a lifetime upon a shelf was useless at the arcade when I went to the arcade to redeem them for my prize, the paper bag of tickets in this faraway mind had been itself also so perfect.

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