w.f. owen

blink

Bill tells the story of his stroke on Super Bowl Sunday. A baseball player, golfer and high school honor student. Much of that taken away as he sat in a recliner during halftime. He is a new advisee of mine at the College. Six years, and only a sophomore. He takes one course at a time. One day at a time, he laughs. Dark glasses. A white cane. He finds the buildings on campus by the colors and shapes of air conditioning units on top. Recently, they repainted our building a different color, throwing off his internal map. He found his way by the different scents of flowers and shrubs bordering the sidewalks. “You turn left at the roses, then right at the mock orange. It’s easy.”

I saw Bill only a few more times. We chatted about the new plants on campus.

humid stillness
in the bush
the frog’s blink