even in arcadia

Wilbur had read him a poem once, about how you know you’re still alive or something like that. He didn’t remember most of it. But he remembered the trick the poet had written about—how you know you’re alive as long as you can still make a fist. Tommy as a child had giggled and slugged his brother in the shoulder, but Tommy today had nobody left to fight. He didn’t think he had the strength to fight anyone anyway, but still. He’d become so familiar with his anger, his rage like a spitting wildcat in his throat, in his fists; his fear was a constant companion, too. Not even in the latter stages of his exile had he felt so… empty.

But he could still make a fist.