Summer 2007

The Night in Question
Paul Lisicky

The rising seas, the bulldog dean: nothing bothered me tonight. My
mother’s mind, shifting like water; my murderous student, Mr. Greasy:
Son of Unibomber. Far away. Yay. I walked toward the beach. I
couldn’t see. But I might have been given a fresh brain, inspired and
outwardly turned, and as soon as I spoke those words to the deep, I
swear creatures started coming toward me. Squirrels, raccoons, deer,
footfalls on fallen leaves. I was like someone out of a freaking folktale,
who knew not death, or the churned-up stomach, but who moved
through the night with the lightest tread, changing it with the benevolence
of his passing. Oh, I’m exaggerating for effect now, I’ll admit it. Real
contentment has none of that extremity or loopiness. No sign of endings,
or of the long black coat creeping out from behind a bush. What was I
telling you? It was something like this: The world was made exactly for
us, and we’d never have to leave it.