Lost it all. Almost

He lost his legs in the war. A land mine, he tells people...and in a way it's true. A land mine destroyed the lead truck of the convoy. The second truck in line swerved to avoid colliding with the first. He was a passenger in the third truck. He'd jumped out to see what was happening and was hit from behind by the fourth truck.

His teeth he lost to bad hygiene and a fondness for hard rock candy. The candy reminded him of Christmas mornings as a boy. Most of his teeth were gone, but he could still suck on the candy.

He lost his wife to cancer. After the war she'd worked for the railway, scrubbing the exterior of the cars with harsh soap and a stiff broom. On weekends she took in laundry, which he would help fold. He'd loved those weekends; they gave him something to do and the smell of freshly-washed laundry filled their small apartment.

He lost his faith in God when his wife became sick. He still believed in God; he just didn't trust him anymore.

The use of his liver he lost to an excess of plum brandy. The Slivovitz didn't ease the loss of his wife, but it helped him to sleep. You could trust Slivovitz.

He'd learned to live without his legs, he managed to get by despite his lack of teeth, he'd come to accept the death of his wife, he didn't need God, and he didn't much care whether or not he had a functioning liver.

On Sunday mornings he'd sit on the steps of the church, toothless and legless, with a pint bottle of plum brandy in his pocket. He'd ask the parishioners to light a candle for his dead wife, and he would graciously accept their well-wishes and their coins.

Inside he'd be laughing. Laughing at the priest, laughing at the parishioners, laughing at God, laughing at himself. He hadn't lost his sense of humor.

posted by greg @ 11:46 AM