Dear Guardian Angels,

… I remembered him this way — not long in this world sucking on my fingers. A sandpapery intimacy. I took his horns when I was 9 and laid on the caustic -stick too long. The small dark fountain spewing from the top of his head surprised me and I lost control of him for a minute. And then for another couple of minutes I held a rag tight against his skull until the redness stopped coming. It’s been 50 years so I was surprised to see him tonight, dragging his six foot chain off his nose ring. I lost a few precious seconds standing in the middle of the field, trying to but unable to move my legs.
And then I’m running toward the gate. It is seven feet tall and padlocked so there’s nothing to do but jump it. And I can jump tonight. On the other side of the gate I bang my head on the dresser on the way down and land on the bedroom floor unconscious. I wake some time later, bleeding and broken and the bull is nowhere to be seen.
I have an interest in horses. How they move bewilders me. One night I decide to race a thoroughbred in Belmont Park. The stadium is full. We have settled (I have insisted) on the distance, one mile because I’m thinking he is going to get off to a better start, and I’m likely to gain on him in the late furlongs. But we are leg for legs right out of the gate and remain so. The crowd is on its feet, cheering for me, ‘ Fitz! Fitz! Fitz!’ I am confident down the final stretch. I am ahead of him. But the horse has a quirk, an anomaly. He has an adjustable neck, able to stretch out to several times his body length and suddenly his head is beside me. I make the final push. My feet rising to the rhythm of the stomping fans. I hear the crowd go silent and I am standing in my bedroom trying to command my legs to move.
I always hoped that I could play soccer for the national team. When I was 7 and I am delighted to be picked at 59 to play against Belgium. The game is tit for tat. I’m primed and gravity doesn’t weigh on me like regular people. And it’s a penalty shoot-out, the pressure is through the roof. I must kick this ball harder than I’ve ever done. I hear my neighbor yell. Something . Maybe it was the sound of the impact on the bedroom wall that roused him. Maybe it was my scream registering bruised and broken toes.

Demons snap their wings against my cortex folds. I blink my eyes and I am riding on the shoulders of a bull across the squares of a chess board, scattering pawns and kings. I raise my eyes to the sky and inhale the dark of the retreating clouds. I have a memorable singing voice my neighbor Micky shouts through the wall. ‘Lord, will you give it a break !’ when he thinks I’m not asleep …