Jed Wolf

After several days and hard nights peeling away layers of my own skin writing, I was at my wits end when I thought I felt Sarah’s brother tingling up my spine.

At some point, everyone I’ve ever met has shown concern for my mental health. I’d been slaving away for corporations tapping into unseen forces trying to predict the future when my partner, parents and therapist first suggested medication but telling people like me what we lack, need, and suffer from, drives us crazier.

I’d been more likely to notice the unseen back then passively in churches, through art or around death when my own veils needed heavy lifting. After attributing that heady time to ho hum insecurity, I hadn’t felt anything extraordinary since and considered ghosts woo-woo and cuckoo until hearing about Sarah’s brother.

When the “invisible” interrupts the daily program, it’s important to consider professional help and dangerous for artists to Van Gogh it alone. A bit proud of that last maxim, I’m tempted to attribute it to something like Sarah’s brother to avoid taking responsibility, but I’d like to have more integrity than that.

Several days ago, I leaned into a stick. Recently blind, I depended my good eye and was wearing glasses but it poked me from below and though my vision wasn’t affected, the blood-filled marble scared me. I knew from experience it would take a while for the red to clear and I’d forgotten about it until introducing myself to our Airbnb guests Sarah and Dan.

Explaining my patch alone would’ve been unnecessary. Though the combination of pirate patch and blood ball might’ve required only a succinct sentence or two, unrehearsed and struggling, I spilled my guts in a truth-serumy way strangers might find uncomfortable.

“No don’t be sorry,” Sarah said, not minding at all. Shifting quickly into my tour guide mode, I suggested things to do around town feeling she and I had more to talk about. They’d had a great time exploring the area over the weekend and this morning before they left, I ambled over to say goodbye.

They were sitting with laptops on their patio as I approached when Sarah noticed the peacock on my coffee cup. “My brother had a thing for peacocks,” she said, about to well up.

He’d taken his life six years ago. She’d been through a lot to accept his choice and though peacocks brought back memories of him, she was okay with it. She and Dan seemed comfortable enough, but hearing about Sarah’s brother gave me chills.

He’d been a medium and savant who had a blog and posted over several apparently lonely years. Narcolepsy medication contributed to his depression and hearing how he ended it in woods made me shudder. Sarah linked me to his blog and at first I found his inquiring antennae-like mind fascinating until his quasi-scientific philosophies seasoned with irony and humor read like someone either unfamiliar with or uninterested in editing, but how would I know?

The most noticeable thing about his pages was the lack of responses to them and I wondered why he hadn’t tried harder to reach his readers. “The difference between the right and wrong word,” as Mark Twain famously said, “is the difference between a lightning bug and lightning,” and what I read of Sarah’s brother reminded me of when I cared less.

“The quicker pace of fewer approaching years stimulates the senses,” I might’ve heard Sarah’s brother say of aging, in my vulnerable state, but it was me.

Writing is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s easy for anyone to put themselves out there these days but “Children Will Listen,” as Sondheim said so brilliantly.

If we use each other simply as mirrors, something is wrong. If audiences and critics are writers’ and actors’ only eyes, bad reviews and none can be dangerous. Yet who on earth isn’t blind and insecure, I regularly ask myself twisting in my sheets. We need each other’s legs to learn to walk and hearts sometimes to heal our own but my interest in goosebump signals from the other side reflected anxiety and narcissism.

I’d like to thank a Pulitzer Prize Committee and my dear husband, fellow artists, thumbs up emojis, supportive comments from friends, just the right amount of everyone else who can’t be bothered and God. Though I’m grateful for E. Katherine Kerr who during my suicidal forties deserved the most credit for helping me express myself, and Sarah’s brother for well-timed peacock bumps, it would be just as easy to blame them all for helping me go nuts.

I must take full credit and responsibility for my braver and weaker points. Though life is more mysterious than I ever imagined, and I’m tempted to feel blessed by the unseen, I hear equally mysterious less beautiful voices and choose to ignore the whole lot of them.

After several rough nights shaving too close for comfort and appearing a mess, Sarah could see I needed a hug. When she mentioned peacocks and I could tell how much she missed her brother, I knew I must be careful how to tell this story.