oscar’s twelfth chapter: a little poke in the eye.

It should be noted that Oscar, in addition to being indifferent about tying his shoes, chose daily to forego the annoyingly confining grip of any underwear, specially jockeys. This looseness comforted Oscar. He would argue that it kept his mind – and body – free. Free to wander. And so it did.

The tumbling Venus pebble he’d been kicking down the street came to a halt by a postcard. He picked it up. Turned it over, twice. It had been run over by cars and had a pebbly, gritty finish. The gloss and shine was long gone, but not the shock of the familiar tiny handwriting.

“Dad, here I am horizontal on a slightly cloudy cool but dry Saturday afternoon and Mom is cooking chikken and making her bed and phone calls til we go buy me some of the latest technology for swimming in some of your pools cause she just got back from her tap class while I was sleeping since I didn’t get in til two last night (or this morning) ’cause I had driven pretty much fast and furious and thinking obsessively of things beginning on the right and heading left across the country when on sunny beautiful Wednesday afternoon at four my morning coffee date with a circus performer started beautifully then tumbled gloriously and finally – lo, fatefully – ended so bittersweetly but with a greatness of promise and hope due to things done, seen, said and felt between and of each other which I think has been a surprise to both of us (at least it was to me: she felt… very very good – and the hugs!) but now throbs a new dilemma which basically consists of (and here we now deal in a MOST tiresomely familiar currency to me) frustration: what do we do with ourselves now can we wait what’s fair and when when when I love you? (More later of course given strength and the above-mentioned new technology. Check your answering machine, please; I left you a message yesterday morning. You can hear the voice of my being there.) And I love you, too… wherever you are. Oscar.”

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