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STORM WATCH IW. S. Penn THE WEEK AFTER Christmas, we dragged out the tree, trailing silvery snippets of tinsel, to the curb, where an unknown service group would make its skeleton disappear at an unlikely hour. After the tree, we dragged out Kenny. Perhaps I shouldn't tell this story; but maybe I can keep the tone even, and glaze over the crevices and depressions--the horrors even I do not understand--and yet leave you with the grin of truth. Is this really me? Silly or not, it is a question I ask the whitecapped waves, at night, which seem to rise out of nowhere as I balance on a tilting deck of reasons for what has happened. I ask myself when I am alone--when Dara has taken ill to her cabin and I prowl the corners of the ship--looking for my fear, to face it, overpower it, will it away. From what I understand of the sailors' English, we are skirting a typhoon. I believe that people have a purpose, and that they are circumscribed by it in certain moments--as the few minutes which passed between my birth and Kenny's that made me the older brother. Sometimes we are
The Missouri Review – University of Missouri
Published: Oct 5, 1981
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