Little Red Stripes are Normal

Many people avoid inundating you with the spiked
details of their pain. They stuff
it in the private landfill
of their hearts. It’s perfectly
understandable. I’m thinking
of William. For most of his 75
years he withheld from view
the anger and deepest regret that wiggled ever
so slowly in his aorta like a catfish
raking a muddy river. Despite ingesting dead
microbes, snails and leeches he kept breathing,
walking and punching
the clock in all the normal
ways though there were small
hints. How often he balled his right
fist like a grenade. That, too, was normal.
William did it, got used
to bothersome panic attacks, clenched
his jaw while giving a well-paced,
respectable Toastmaster’s speech—The History
of Tornadoes in Tennessee. When his wife
needed comfort he’d push the junkheap
of suppression straight into
his hands. He’d make
love, hug her so tight his fingers
made little redstripes on her lonely
shoulders. When William was stricken
with Alzheimer’s things changed. Came the tantrums,
the inconsolable sobs. These, too, fit
on the bellcurve of normal. Most patients
lose control, forget they had irongates,
reins, and blinders.