Sorrows and consolations….

When I was in the psych hospital at 15—anorexic, depressed about blindness, in reality just an ordinary adolescent—I had a room mate. He was likely no older than I am now but I thought he was an old man. He spoke very little English. He was an immigrant from Eastern Europe. Anyway, while I was busy starving myself to death he lay in bed and moaned and muttered to himself. Every now and then he’d totter my way, lift his gown, and say: “Look at my scar!”

The depth of his sadness was impossible to absorb. That was my first lesson in sublime unending sorrow.

As I watch the horrors unfolding on our nation’s border with Mexico I again feel the palpable call of unendurable sorrow.

Refugees are crying: “look at our scars.”

Trump, our junk mail president smirks.

Scars are for losers.

**

Ode to My Right Eye

In pain
More than half
The day
Cold
As a starling
But wise
For that
Knowing
Fostered
Words
Of light
My drowner
Blind sister
Who can’t
Be consoled.

**

Consolation is tailor made for aphorisms. I have none. Every single human is scarred.

**

To my 15 year old self:

Scars are a matter of winning.

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