Physical Education

Physical Education


Sundays when I was young, my father
and I
played basketball. On those days
Eugene
was sober, he borrowed an old
pair of shoes and

never missed from the corner. He and
my father
stole from each other's lungs, growing old
while I
remained Little Man, in town hat and hair. Eugene
measured his days

against mine, like the spaces between bones, my days
growing and
reaching past the calendars Eugene
and my father
carried in their livers, blackened by whiskey and I
thought, the old

memories of missed free throws, memories of the old
days
when an Indian basketball player could be Jesus. I
grew and
knew it was "Damn" and "Goddamn" when my father
and Eugene

leaned into the key, their bodies, against time, Eugene
a step old
and fifteen years younger than my father.
On most days
my father had more from the night before, and
Eugene and I

both knew it, felt it in the hands, and I
watched Eugene
move out of himself then, a piece at a time, and
like an old
house on fire, I wanted to rescue those days
from the ash, my father

who lived and only grew old
while I watched Eugene die and
forgive all the days he forgave my father.


Sherman Alexie...........from Old Shirts & New Skins