Misch had to touch things with his enormous hand: his face fair, his eyes always perplexed.
Any question, after some delay, he’d respond to very slowly. Because in his mind he had to touch things bit by bit, with his fair hands.
There was something delicate in his smile like a skittish unicorn, something awkward and loving. An Irreality.
Much later, when he was as big as a grown man, they gave him glasses . . . And then he became another person.
That summer he built himself a little cabin where he lived for some time sheltered from the elements and secure,
and around the border just under the ceiling he painted in sweet calligraphy the prayer of his nest to God—who now could see his writing much more clearly with glasses:
ÄCH BÄN E SAKS DES STUW ÄS MENJ—AS HÄRRGOTT MEG AS GNEDISCH SENJ
In this small room a Saxon You’ll find—Lord, grant me mercy and be kind.