it’s late, and i’m in the tub outside, lookin at stars, dogs, and trying to think out this silly story.

outside. smells like my uncle’s place in georgia, where my father was born.superman. my uncle guy, after whom i am named, told me he was superman. at night, he would call me to the bathroom window.

guy was a strapping man, a soldier who was injured in an explosion in okinawa. he lost an eye and perhaps, his edge. he was tough as nails, but never married, never talked of the war, had a facial twitch dad believed came from guilt. but you’d never know it to meet him, at least to a boy named after him (i’m guy scott). he could have kept a phone booth in the house and i would have thought nothing of it.

‘watch,’ uncle guy says, whenever i visit. ‘i will fly past the window.’

i watch. too dark. so pitch…wait…what was that?…wasthathim? no, couldnthavebeen. couldit?

guy back in a few minutes.

‘did you see me?’

‘no.’

‘i flew right past.’

‘no you didnt! i was watching. do it again!’

‘you didnt see me? that’s funny. i thought for sure you’d see me this time.’

forever like that.

he died a few years ago. or many. all that blurs untilitdoesn’tmatter.

what does matter is that i see him clear as a goddamn sunrise, cape aloft, arms forward, chest barrelled, soaring past the window with a nod and a smile and a wave for a namesake in a bathroom window.

smells like that now, here with the dogs and the music and the crickets and the water and the…

wait.

what was that?