A prodigy in the eyes of his maternal grandmother (if not as much so to the rest of the world), Bruce Polsky did not become a doctor as had been hoped of him...indeed as had been beseeched, knees to the cobbled stone. As if in this single act, as in the hatching of a colossal golden egg, would come the very fulfillment of Family Destiny. No,...
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A prodigy in the eyes of his maternal grandmother (if not as much so to the rest of the world), Bruce Polsky did not become a doctor as had been hoped of him...indeed as had been beseeched, knees to the cobbled stone. As if in this single act, as in the hatching of a colossal golden egg, would come the very fulfillment of Family Destiny. No, given the bat, he failed to step up to the plate. Given a nickel’s worth of talent, he spent it indifferently...as if it were to be placed into the first jukebox he passed. And then he never stayed to hear the music.
Instead, he became a common man, a working stiff, a homeowner, a husband, and two times a father. But he never forgot the sage words of his grandmother. And as he crested into his middle, maybe his later, years (who knows/how long/the wind blows?), he remembered his grandmother’s appeal — like a rusty nail pressed into the soft clear flesh of his open palm — that he could always come back to his art. And so he has. So he has.
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