And For My Last Trick (v6.0)
by Ian Harding
He'd arrive with the hayfever days, Uncle Ned, tipping winks at the ladies, fedora and travelling bags, little miracles up his sleeves like aces.
Agog I'd watch a coin march across his knuckles, march back again. He'd flick grit at the moon and the evening would twitch with bats. Mewl somehow and the she-cats came slinking. Hoot like an owl through cupped hands.
I've never adored so much before or since.
Ever the showman, he saved his greatest trick for last. Hid a foreign bullet in his heart, fashioned a pillow from Belgian turf, and made a hush the family keep, even now. I know he will never come visiting again, or set his bags down in our porch. But still I can't help waiting, breathless, with the drumroll.
Home | About Us | Contact Us