Читать книгу The Story I Am - Roger Rosenblatt - Страница 26

From the Novel Thomas Murphy

Noiseless, I have drawn up my straw pallet so that I might lie on the floor beside my dad’s bed. Above me, he breathes like the polar sea. He floats in his sleep. I would like to ride the current with him—the two of us on a mare heading to deep waters, under the sea’s sun. But he is alone in his dying, as I am alone in my living. I lie on my makeshift bed, my arms behind my head like angel wings. Every so often, I look up. He begins to appear as glass, as a glass ink bottle into which I may dip my pen. I dip my pen in my father and write what he tells me. And now I am reborn, a new child again, learning to make my way in the new world. What is a rock? What is a daisy? Hours pass and I crawl around the poem I write of him and me. Soon I pull myself upright, vertical man, and I write of that, as my father instructs me. Automatic writing.

Then it stops, and there are no further instructions, so I put down my pen and cap the ink bottle, resting my head on the parchment of his arms.