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And what did “smithereens” mean, anyway? He said that without knowing (until he checked later) that scholars think “smithereens” likely developed from the Irish word smidiríní, which means “little bits” (the diminutive of smiodar, “fragment”). And little bits of fine glass was what most of the carafe had become upon impact with the granite.
On his walk later, after he had tidied up as much as he could, having found little bits as far as a dozen feet away, Goines reflected that his dreams during the night had seemed like incoherent fragments, mysterious and troubling. Maybe something from those dreams was trailing after Goines as he washed and dried some things after breakfast.
Or maybe it was the poem he had read during breakfast, about being shot down an infinite hole or pit...? Maybe it wasn’t his personal mortality that was bothering Goines, wasn’t his own death he felt drawing close, but the possibility of general disaster attending the coming presidential election. A friend had told him about a really bad dream he’d had about people being put out of their homes with no food or hope, society falling into chaos, Congress blocked from doing anything. And the friend said he realized later it wasn’t a dream....
Goines’ walk was taking him near the electrical box, and he believed that, despite all, he felt fit, relieved by the thought that his own death might not be that close after all. Maybe 61 pushups wouldn’t kill him. Indeed, at 63, he felt readier for the next than he had felt for 61 the day before. He stopped and continued walking, thinking he might do another set on the return.
Soon he reached the driveway where he liked to find the people’s newspaper lying on the sidewalk and, after reading the headline, toss it up toward their garage door. He successfully did not look at the headline today before tossing the paper, which landed perfectly right at the entrance of the people’s walkway.
And he did 54 more pushups on his return. Maybe things were looking up. At least for him personally, for his outlook. He needed it.
Or maybe it was the poem he had read during breakfast, about being shot down an infinite hole or pit...? Maybe it wasn’t his personal mortality that was bothering Goines, wasn’t his own death he felt drawing close, but the possibility of general disaster attending the coming presidential election. A friend had told him about a really bad dream he’d had about people being put out of their homes with no food or hope, society falling into chaos, Congress blocked from doing anything. And the friend said he realized later it wasn’t a dream....
Goines’ walk was taking him near the electrical box, and he believed that, despite all, he felt fit, relieved by the thought that his own death might not be that close after all. Maybe 61 pushups wouldn’t kill him. Indeed, at 63, he felt readier for the next than he had felt for 61 the day before. He stopped and continued walking, thinking he might do another set on the return.
Soon he reached the driveway where he liked to find the people’s newspaper lying on the sidewalk and, after reading the headline, toss it up toward their garage door. He successfully did not look at the headline today before tossing the paper, which landed perfectly right at the entrance of the people’s walkway.
And he did 54 more pushups on his return. Maybe things were looking up. At least for him personally, for his outlook. He needed it.
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