AMY GERSTLER
How could I lose sight of him? I only know that my eyes followed him as far as possible, till my gaze wandered over the horizon’s brink, where insight and blindness alike are insufficient. When I go for a walk in the afternoon to mail letters, avoiding my own eyes in windows or water, I frequently have the feeling I’m just about to see him. When I get into bed at night, all bundled up, the bedclothes exhale a whiff reminiscent of him, though he’s never set foot in this room. Tonight I click off the light and lie on my back, my hands behind my head as though I were lying in wet grass, waiting for rabbits and deer to leap over me, or something heavier to puncture my stomach with its hoof. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, then for the night birds to begin sounding off. I think about him for what seems like a long time, and about how sad it is that what I jot down daily, or mull over in the walled chamber behind my eyes, can’t hold a candle to his flickering image, can’t show me some fresh vision of him, or explain why I constantly feel, as I drift off, that he’s watching me.