Invisible Things

For months, I have been walking around with an invisible hat, well, not a hat exactly but a cat, no, a cat's not quite right either; it is actually a cast. For months, I have been walking around with an invisible cast.

A few people--most of whom know me extraordinarily well--can see it. I didn't even realize your arm was broken! they say. Ha! Ha! I say.

And then there are the others, the ones who don't know me as well, but who can clearly see I'm holding my arm funny, carting it around like the lanky loop of a grade-school y. Is it broken? they ask. Broken? I answer.

Maybe I should have gotten a real cast, all plaster and goo and a sling to hold it. That way, years ago, you could have written something on it, something to the effect of "I WUZ HERE," and today, right at this very moment, I could look down at it--the red Sharpee bleeding at the edges; the heart almost not even a heart anymore--and I could wonder where you got to.

Oh, you who "wuz here," where are you now?