=Sssh!=

Dad comes into my room one night with a hammer. He says, "I'm sorry to have to do this but some things happened that need fixing." He takes hold of my chin. "Hold still goddammit!" He's already frustrated and pissed-off, the way he gets when he attempts even the simplest home repair. When it's over, he says "If anyone asks, tell them you fell off your bike."

Years pass, lots of things change except the sense that something's missing. I just don't know what it is. I follow I-don't-know-what like a star and like a star it keeps receding, slipping beneath the horizon. I might be an alien watching my home disappear. I ask my Mom, "Do you remember..." "Yes," she answers. "You fell off your bike." So they got to her, too, I realize. The circle is complete.

I'm nothing special. If you look closely, a lot of us have the same dent in our heads. Sometimes it's hidden under the hair and you have to feel around for it with your fingers. We could form a Society or an Invisible Order—but based on what, exactly? On the fact that something's missing, something we can't remember, something that's been lost somewhere along the way, something that's been taken? Is that enough? The only thing we have in common is that we've all fallen off a bike at roughly the same time in our lives. At least that's what we're all saying. And no one thinks that odd? No one's the wiser? "Ssssh!"