The Unburied

Through the late sixties we saved the shrapnel Al tweezered out of his thighs and arms. By the mid seventies, unless the slag was of a considerable size, you know, like as big as a malformed pencil eraser, not much was said and if he kept them, I never knew. But in those early days of gratefulness at being alive and pure, unadulterated awe at the amount of uncontainable laughter (not to mention good sex) still to be had — despite the fact half a leg had been left in The Gulf of Tonkin — we kept every small, dark bit of foreign substance that surfaced. It was fascinating, how it would just keep coming. The creamy white skin of his thigh, clear of any blemish on Monday, might be pebbled with peppery-colored floaters just under the skin by that same Friday, or a month later, or six. We just never knew. And then quite suddenly they’d be there. Usually only one to three in number, but sometimes the shrapnel surfaced like a flock of small birds flown up from some deeper branch to try to break through the sky of his skin.

For years we kept all those bits in a small prescription bottle for some pills we had worn out; and kept the bottle in the nightstand drawer. I can remember it rolling around inside when I’d sling the drawer open too fast or slam it closed too fiercely, even after he died. Especially after he died, I suppose. Don’t ask me where the little prescription bottle with its flesh-tearing souvenir b-b’s has gone. I don’t have a answer. Or where the nightstand went either. I’m certain, if I thought about it all long enough I would recall what happened to the nightstand–but why?