Heirloom

Abstract

Heirloom Daniel Anderson (bio) Every man carries with him through life a mirror, as unique and impossible to get rid of as his shadow. —W. H. Auden Who understands better than Ihow unbecoming self-pity is?One grows so weary of the dulland disbelieving stare that asks,Of all the people in the world, why me?And yet, some days it’s difficultnot feeling cursed myself.Summoned from shadow and thin, silver light,I’m little more than just a séance guest,a nearby, unacknowledged soulwho’s loved you more than you can ever know.At last, I’ve said it. There.Awkward, perhaps embarrassing, but true.When have your secrets not been safe with me?When have we ever disagreed?Who am I more familiar with,who am I more devoted to,who am I more protective of than you?It hasn’t all been adulation.Lord, how I’ve weathered your black moods,the disapproving looks,your sudden loathing and disgust.But tell me this: who notices what thosewho’ve known you your whole life have rarely seen?This cherry angioma or that mole.The nevus floating on the tiny lakeof your blue eye. And here,though often you forget, [End Page 432] the faintest sliver of a scarright smack-dab in the middle of your brow.If you study hard enough, long enough,you can almost seethat bashful, clumsy child you used to be.Albums of old photographs agree:back then, the world was scaledin nickel, chrome, and magnetite.Even today, in your own mind,your first familiar faces glowin a muted pearl and mackerel light.Your parents, Claude and Jean,grandmother Ruth, your older siblings—allcome back to you in that lustrousold-fashioned television black and whiteof Gunsmoke or The Andy Griffith Show.In any case, that scar. Yes, that scar . . . It’s Christmas eve of 1966.You’ve just been freshly bathed,bundled in plush, scarlet pajamasand trotted out for one last roundof hugs goodnight. Your hair is damp.You smell of steam and Life Buoy soap.The cramped house glimmers in the dark.Electric candles on the windowsillflicker and lick the pane.Over the fireplace mantel,eight rosy, glowing reindeer crack the whipon Santa’s loaded sleigh. But it’s the tree!A tiny galaxy of twinkling bulbs,snowflakes, angels, and candy canes.Tinsel and icicles drench the branches.And on the top of that lopsided spruce,a beaming star of Blenko glass.A placid wonder warms your faceand you can’t seem to look away.(There was a time when I myselfwas also worthy of that gaze.)Punch cups are filled with holiday cheer—an age-old family recipefor eggnog with a kick of applejack. [End Page 433] O, Danny boy, somebody croons,and you are snapped out of your trance.But when you start to scamper off for bed,your toddler feet get crossed.They catch the curled, upturned edge of a rug.You stumble, lunge, and fall,slamming your forehead on the corner pointof the small, walnut coffee table.At first, you’re merely stunned,eerily silent. And thenthe shaking and that murderous screambefore a wet, confusing flow of bloodclouds everything you see.Five decades later, here we are.Whenever you smell iodineor rubbing alcohol, your scalp tingles.A nervous voltage travels down your spine.Sometimes, you even feelthe sting, pluck, and deadened, gentle tugas Dr. Doyle pulls the suture tight.Bald Dr. Doyle. How bizarreyou still remember him.His plaid bowtie and Old Spice aftershave.That close-cropped, salt-and-pepper beard.Who else recalls these things with you but me? Teardrop by silver teardrop,your griefs have been my own griefs, too.Perhaps not grand on any human scale.(Others have suffered worse and always will,etcetera, etcetera.) Perhapsnot worthy of the nightly news, but stillI have wondered now and then,of all the people in the world, why you?You were a sweet and sensitive boy,a real glad-hander and a chatterbox,though strangely prone to...