Ichabod

Ichabod knew others found him odd. In fact, from their restricted

measure of the strange, he knew and understood the range of reasons

why they would. But Ichabod found only one thing odd. That no one

grasped the most overt phenomenon of all: that everything they saw

or smelled or felt or thought or touched or looked at was a miracle.

He’d sometimes grow satirical in livid diatribes he’d orate to himself,

imagining he’d change the lives of these unknowing tribes with itemized

accounts of evidence of all their mindless blindness. But no, there was

no laugh in that. It would be like naming all the evidence to Money

of the impotence of Money. Wasn’t funny. He didn’t want to rain on their

parades – or spoil the charades they took as living. He had no taste for

public strife. He liked instead to let his rife Imagination hop through all

he saw or smelled or felt or thought or touched or looked at like a bunny.  

A case might well be made, if ‘they’ were right that some Big Bang had

set our whole thing into flight, and therefore also had to be the genesis

of light, that life by definition was, and ever would be, sunny.

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