My sophomore year in high school, my Aunt
Mavis handed me a translation of
Caesar’s Gallic Wars–her gift to help scant
my chances of failing Latin, a love
act toward her favorite brother’s son—its
once chartreuse hard cover darkened with age,
the tightly weaved fiber ground deep with grit,
turned lemon-black, like harsh clouds that presage
tornadoes. She mussed my hair with her lean,
already-liver-spotted hand, softened
by Jergen’s lotion. Laughed, hugged me, chiding
my Catholic conscience when I mentioned
sins of cheating. Left when she’d kissed my cheek.
I tossed out the book after the first week.
Roger Armbrust
June 4, 2007
