Autobiography (of sorts)

Minnesota was a cold place to be born. My August arrival was a reprieve from winter’s fingers. I was aligned with flat land that kicked up trees too tall to climb. An Indian led me to the Lamb of God, I quaked, shook and shivered as I walked the aisle. He was Lakota, wore a blue suit and tie. I was tiny for a sinner, but I knew my need for redemption. He tied me to the Lamb and I thought—must I feed it or kill it? He gave no answer, just a smile.

The blonde girl sat in the one short tree that we had. I stood to the side and watched her, confused and mystified. Her body, the long thin legs beneath her jeans were cradled by the tree;

it was all too much. Then I explored death’s thick grip—all is loss. The dogs will only cause tears; bullets and school buses took them away, I will spare you the howls of imagined wolves, lupine trickery it was and I took it all in my fear-mounted hands and learned how small I was. In those years in California, shame became a well-tailored suit. A perfect fit and no frayed hems.

I wore it until it was too small. Dirt, the small house, Goodwill clothes, old car and shoes with holes all were soiled disappointments. I was soiled too and there were always more suits to wear. The test said, “a genius.” It was dangerous to have that high a number--it felt like power. “A genius” it said.

The orange blossoms grew amidst that battlefield, where boys threw their juice-filled grenades, made killing noises and won no battles. The war was far away, we knew no better. Unfazed, we took our bikes home—it was dinnertime.

The story ends with broken pieces; I threw them in a yellow bucket along with the burned and rusted bike and the house’s ashes. I set them aflame.

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Wayne Bornholdt is a retired bookseller with degrees in philosophy and theological studies. He lives in West Michigan with his wife and their three Golden Retrievers. He has published his work in a number of journals, among them: Ekstasis, Fare Forward (forthcoming), The Clayjar Review, Ravens Perch, and Amethyst.