The Epiphany
By Gene Aronowitz
I once fancied myself a psychic healer
until one evening, many years ago
when an elderly neighbor
sat next to me, anguished by
aches in her legs, swollen
like those of a drowned and decaying
corpse and I said
I could heal her as I had healed
others and, when she nodded,
I placed my hands on
each of her legs, desiring,
almost requiring
their restoration
and, with my eyes
shut, I could feel them shrink
and was satisfied
and was gratified
but my gladness
soon dissolved,
for that was the night
of the epiphany,
the sudden, disheartening realization
that the healer was not
the self-serving placebo
that sat smugly by her side but, rather,
her certainty
that the laying on of hands
could work
miracles.
