Jed Wolf

A Red Wing Blackbird says, “conk-la-reel.” The news says, “Authorities say the group of seven young people beat a man, unprovoked, and stabbed him in the thigh while making anti-gay remarks.”

You say, “Can we listen to something else?” heading into the garden.

I say, “Sure.”

You say I’m addicted to bad news since I went blind. I say music makes me feel guilty. Friends say my eye patch makes me look sexy. The blackbird says our backyard would be a perfect place to nest.

You gently sponge off pool furniture and lay out pads on our chaise lounges, enjoying Vivaldi, oblivious to the plastic bags I’d floated speakers in so I could listen to news underwater. My sister calls. Our cats meow. An early offshore breeze rustles past to replace the hot air already rising over central Florida as another April day begins in paradise.

Yesterday we bought snorkels. You float gently in the morning sun, moving your arms and legs like a retired green sea turtle while bungeed to a bush. I flail, kick, and pull like a toddler staked in a yard. You’re delighted by the waving refractions on the bottom which used to beckon me to drown, and we agree they look like brain synapses stimulated.

There are far too many mirrored eyes around the gym sneaking glances at my eye patch. Whether guessing my story, counting their lucky stars, or just being friendly, their nodding more often makes me act aloof than good-natured. While gym rats remain silent and others talk religiously of sports, I’m reminded of attempting to change inside a locker as a child and hear taunts and jeering laughter to this day.

Dementia, which runs in my family, concerns you more than me, I think, floating on my stomach like a corpse. You’d be my caretaker unless my heart stops first. If I can’t be composted, scatter my ashes above a garden somewhere.

Recalling how the Camellia after a half teaspoon of my mother shriveled and died,

“Release me in a wind before a rain,” I say. I’ll throw food to signal I’m ready. If I begin to look out of it, no food, no resuscitation. Whatever you do, don’t sing show tunes at my deathbed or I’ll feel ashamed for not being a better person. And remember, I’ll be right behind you if you’re first.”

“Are we still going to Gus and Charlie’s retirement party?” you ask.

“When is it again?”

Their parties include gays, straights, family members young and old, dogs, kids, food, music, and football if the Jags are playing.

“Three weeks.”

There are no pictures of either of our families in our house. Even the few you had when we began living together disappeared. Family photos are unnerving. I never remember anniversaries, and we don’t make love because I still cringe at human touch, yet you’ve put up with me for twenty-four years.

After reading some of my writing, a friend said, “You’re coiled around your problems like a snake. Let me know when you release.”

Though she and I haven’t spoken since, when you said my parents were the most selfish people you ever met, though it was true, it still hurt my heart to hear it—which reminded me I still had one.

“I don’t want to be asked what I’ve been up to or about my patch. I don’t want to say I’ve been writing. It sounds so…”

“Honest?” you say.

“I hate small talk.”

“It’s not group therapy. What’s wrong with saying you’re a writer?” you ask, crushing up Koi food for the other babies in our pond.

In addition to purchasing snorkels so we could enjoy our pool weightless in dancing light, I’d bought a highly rated gas mask for fogging hordes of West Nile-carrying mosquitoes that swarm in from the flooded dunes nine days after every hurricane or heavy rain. I’ll fog twice a week if necessary to keep from being trapped indoors. Though Florida can freeze, our property regularly floods, and its politics suck, there’s nowhere in this country I’d rather maintain a body.

Earlier this morning during coffee on our front porch, our friend Jeffrey walked by with his dog. Shouting, “Don’t say gay, girl,” prompted him to come up for a visit which led to a discussion about flying gay flags. He said he and his husband don’t advertise because they’re busy defending trans youth rights. “We’re better off alive,” he said.

I’d rather not think about my eight stents, the lump in my left testicle, the tickle in my lungs, the constant ringing in my ears that’s growing louder like my mother’s had before her brain dissolved, or what my memoir might be about. I’d rather think about how much better the world is with people like Jeffrey in it, but I have little control of my thoughts, especially at night.

If I do sleep, I’m often off stage struggling to find my way on, but last night I was Billy Bigelow in “Carousel” being yelled at by a director for not showing enough emotion.

“What if this memoir is my last chance to grab a brass ring for my sweetheart?”

“Maybe Gus and Charlie’s pool will be warm by then,” you say, handing me an egg sandwich.