The shaving mirror hangs in front of a window overlooking the sea. The sea is always full, flat as
a floor. Or almost: there is a delicate planetary bulge in it, supporting a few shadowy freighters
and cruise ships making their motionless way out of Boston Harbor. At night, the horizon
springs a rim of lights -- more, it seems, every year. Winking airplanes from the corners of the
earth descend on a slant, a curved groove in the air, towards the unseen airport in East Boston.
My life-prolonging pills cupped in my left hand, I lift the glass, its water sweetened by its brief
wait on the marble sinktop. If I can read this strange old guy's mind aright, he's drinking a toast
to the visible world, his impending disappearnce from it be damned.
John Updike
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment