When the bombs sailed over my house, it was like nothing I'd ever seen before. I mean, the fact that I could see them at all was pretty amazing, given that I've been blind since birth ...well, since shortly after birth, I should say.

You see it was like this: My mother - still sore from childbirth, I'm sure - stumbled into the apartment, home from the hospital with newborn Me in one hand and her car keys in the other. Anxious to catch up on her All My Children, she carelessly tossed both me and the car keys on the kitchen table and headed for the living room and the wonderful electronic shrine to the death of the last American braincell: the TV.
Now, my older brother, who was then maybe four or five, was just a little curious about the squirming bundle on the kitchen table. He carefully dragged the chair over from the window where he'd been tossing recently (and violently) deceased goldfish onto pedestrians strolling peacefully on the sidewalk six floors below, and made his way up onto the table. Slowly - though I'm sure, none too carefully - he unwrapped the little blue and pink, hospital-issue bundle, and what to his wondering eyes did appear? Me. New baby me. Cute me. Soft me. Pink and squishy me. Rival for my mother's very limited affections me.

Now, my brother's always been a bit of an idiot, but even the bottom-feeders in the gene pool get that whole Survival of The Fittest thing, and my brother determined right then and there that it was time to cull the herd.

When I was a kid, I always liked to say that I was born on the fourth of July. But the truth is, it was the fifth. Had it really been the fourth, my life - I'm sure - would be very different today. But as it was, it was the fifth, and my life today is what it's always been - just a little off ...just a little.

So it was the fifth of July. And like any fifth of July, there are remnants of the previous evening's festivities to be found everywhere - beer cans, women's underwear, watermelon rinds, missing digits ...and all the sparklers and little flaming-snake-pill things that went unnoticed the night before because everyone was so busy blowing shit up, losing fingers, etc.

Okay, so, my brother, being a resourceful bottom-feeder, strolled out into the alley and gathered up a few of the unwanted sparklers and snakes and matches and probably some of the discarded women's underwear too, knowing my brother. On his return trip to the apartment, he collected his skateboard from the hall, and strolled back through the door - a man on a mission, a walking solution.

Meanwhile, out in the living room, my mother was pouring another scotch while patiently waiting for the last of "These words from our commercial sponsor" and most likely mumbling to herself, "Fucking maxi pads! Who the hell uses those things anyway? Fucking gross is what it is! I'd much rather buy laundry detergent or one of those K-Tel Hits of the Fifties! records or something... anything... Christ! Shuddup and c'mon already..!".

So, as she's fumbling around for her swizzle stick (known in some circles as "an old, nasty straw"), the door from the kitchen flies open and there I am, glued to my brother's skateboard with a healthy smear of molasses, flaming snakes writhing from my screaming mouth and two gold-and-green sparklers stuck right through the middle of both eyes, wheeling toward my wide-eyed mother at full speed, while my brother watched quietly from the kitchen.

There I was - 26 hours from the womb and already making my second grand entrance - terror on wheels, a living, breathing, howling nightmare.

When the bombs sailed over my house and touched down in my little backyard, it was like nothing I'd ever seen before... for just a moment, it was nothing short of miraculous.

- Ezekiel Woods, 2007

EzekielWoods@gmail.com

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