An Itch That Isn’t There

The doctor says deep down there is a responsible wire, some or such circuitry fried as August grass, that causes me to lift my left leg and itch like a dog. I do this without realizing it, even while walking, expecting my left foot to be there for the next step; instead, I fall hard in the street, embarrassed. The doctor says I must become what my malfunctioning innards and brain coils think I am. 
The doctor says, “Woof,” and tosses a tongue depressor in the corner of the room. I hesitate.
She says, “Go get it,” and rubs my tummy on the sterile floor. 
“See, you understand.” She says, “Good boy.”
She says, “I’ll call you Bucky. You’ll like the other dogs, and Stuart, my husband.” She leashes and leads me to the car. 
“Are you excited,” she says, “?” 
She rolls down the window and says to herself, “I should really stop talking to the dogs. They can’t understand me. Though a part of me really thinks they do understand me in a weird way. I hope Stuart remembers the store closes early on Tuesdays. I don’t want to have eggs and asparagus for dinner again.”

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Myth Making

I was discussing with a neighbor about my upbringing and his. I drew many pictures that day conveying a history. No one who was there is there now, including me. I spewed my childhood onto the chalkboard.
I said, “Myself at seven, underneath a blanket on the hillside, my brother behind me, arm bent with the rock in his hand that knocked me silly.” 
I said, “Myself at five, before school, dressed like a collection of crayons, holding my mother’s hand.” 
I said, “A bird lying in a sorghum field, dead, a pheasant, perhaps the first I ever shot.”
The neighbor commented on my precise memory. “My childhood was a blur,” he said. “When I try to discern specific moments, it is like following a single particle of water through the current.”
I said, “I draw better than I remember. Look here.” I directed his eyes to the chalkboard. 
I said, “Myself at ninety, gray-haired, sleeping.” 
I said, “Shall I tell some portion of your existence?”
“Yes,” he said. “When I am rich.”
I said, “Even I cannot draw that well.”

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The Myth of Objects

I have laid some objects on a tablecloth for you. What do they have in common? How many are there? Currently, they are just hollow forms inside your brain. But here, along the crescent of my fingertip, here is a golf ball. What can you tell me about these objects now? About this syringe? Or this piece of a horse’s jaw I found lying in a field? What about these clots of dirt you keep kicking up, rudely, as you dance around the cloth, pointing to my miserable set of items, laughing?  The grass is a shade darker than last summer. What is your relation to me? Let me tell you something: I can see these items perfectly clear. It is your face I don’t recognize.

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Elias Hutchinson lives in St. Louis, MO, with his wife, Katherine, and three cats, Merlin, Kermit, and Quack.