The Sycamore

The young veteran — a double amputee — is still learning how to pilot a wheelchair. He stops a few feet from the concrete lip of the pond, gazing across at a sycamore shining in the sun. His eyes travel down the trunk & into the water, the shadow going one way, the reflection another. A carp slides under the flesh-toned bark. Meanwhile, his flannel shirt has turned into a screen for reflected sunlight, dazzling the mallards crowding around his chair. He glances down at the dancing shadows on his chest, then reaches behind for a bag of breadcrumbs, which he sets there where a lap used to be, in that abyss.