below the surface

Biker. 3rd Avenue- No Hands

Rolling steadily forward, arms
laid across his chest, eyes
indignant, haughty and no more
appreciative of basking in these
first spring rays than he might be of
awakening to the sound of laughter
echoing off the splintered wood floor in a
dank, creaky cabin. 13 years old and
falling out of a rusty camp bunk setting
alight a flame of humiliation that has
burned, unwavering, many years.

To the casual observer, this bright morning
seemed no more welcome to him than an
outright insult. But in truth, the UV rays
brought life to him- life as startling as
hitting a cold floor but as illuminating as
mankind’s brightest epiphany. His demeanor
could not suggest the hope that lay within.
His countenance betrayed little of
the vision, sudden and complete,
a picture he had wordlessly prayed
for twenty years of collected nights, conjured
unconscious, subconscious and never for
one moment daring to believe it could happen-
that it might actually appear- tangibly
outside of his feverish reveries.

His body, confused by the return of
something so completely unexpected, was
no longer familiar with the physical
portrayal of such spontaneous confidence
that all he had often dreamed would, in fact,
one day come to pass. His startled muscles
tried and faltered at the exercise of belief
made palpable. But inside the frame,
every molecule churned with something
akin to excitement, something close to
anticipation and something not far from
expectancy. For the first time in many
years, the ennui painted on his still face
became the mask. And the possibility of
something new welling up became the truth.
In one, brief, undetected instant, a
few slight, simple, glancing rays of sun
brought this man back to life.