An accidental result of my premature birth,

my sightless right eye left me with some…

difficulties,

but none insurmountable.

So, I stumbled on through early childhood,

bumping into corner walls on my right side,

knocking over multiple glasses of milk

while I developed a self-created, artificial depth perception

which sufficed

until, at 5 years old,

they discovered my little handicap

and tossed the worried thought that I was…

deficient…

My Jewish Grand Pa Max,

(my Fathers Father who Dad hated),

was a stolid Russian drunk

with more vodka in his veins than blood.

But, still, he loved his sons son,

even though I was the Shicksa’s, not Jewish, little boy.

and he sobered, some, when my family came to visit.

I, however, remained stand-offish,

a bit reluctant around him,

mimicking my Adventist, tea-totaling mothers aversion

to his rummy, blood-shot eyes,

his liquor laced breath

and his periodic Russian profanities.

Then, once during a visit to their Bronx apartment,

(always and only for the sake of our beloved Grandma Rose),

he, always awkward and unstable,

pulled my mother out into the hallway,

leaving my father, tense,

Grandma worried and fidgety,

my older sister alarmed

and me, curious.

After a few moments,

Mother stormed back inside,

red faced and Irish furious

and in some suppressed rage,

she grabbed our hands and spit to Dad,

“I’m leaving! Come if you want to!”

Bewildered by her wild command,

we left,

leaving Grandpa leaning on the hall wall,

stammering and mumbling in Russian.

Dad drove us home,

asking Mommy what had happened?

“What did the bastard do?!”

When she composed herself enough to relate her

misadventure, she said,

“He offered his eye!

That God-damned blurry, alcoholic, blood shot eye!

To Kenny!

I nearly puked to think of it

staring out at me from my babies sweet face!

Besides, It wouldn’t help!”

Now, I’ve been through some fairly surprising moments

in my long life,

but that one, driving home in the old Pontiac

echos in my memory

like the Japanese Army train wreck

in movie THE BRIDGE OVER THE RIVER KWAI!

Grandpa,

in his love and inebriation and ignorance of medical realities

had offered me his eye.

To “Kenny-one-eye”

Target of abuse and hilarity in school yard punch ball games!

Who couldn’t catch a football pass if it was rolled to him,

slowly, on the turf.

Who, later in life, would turn parallel parking

into a dramatic confrontations with front and rear bumpers.

The next time we visited,

while Mother stumbled an apology

and Dad stiffly lied his way through

the supposed why’s and why nots,

I sat on the rug at Grandpa’s feet

wondering if he would mind

if I retied his shoe laces

which he had, in his alcoholic haze,

botched in his hasty preparation for our visit.

Or maybe,

just perhaps,

if I might place my hand on his,

knobby, shaky knee.

As I would discover,

he wouldn’t mind,

at all.