Thursday morning at a gas station on I-40 near Tucumcari, New Mexico:
“You quit touchin’ that stuff afore I knock you right out that door” the fat man in shorts, knee socks, and sandals says to the boy who looks down, down at whatever is down inside, that meets whatever is down on the floor where it is quiet for a moment..
where he paints in secret swirls, with imagined colors, circles on the dirty linoleum, a dusty mandala- intricate shapes of conjured dreams, where he is absorbed for while in the width and whorls of the soundlessness behind words, the protection of quiet. For a moment, a minute perhaps, the boy is without a name and the wheel on the floor is the fiery wheel of a chariot, and he breathes as it spins in emerald rainbows.
There is no fat man. There are no chains.
“This is my body, broken for you..”
“Get yer ass out to the car, boy”
“Do this remembrance of me..”
David Weber, 2010