The Letter Man

Last year Cliff had major open-heart surgery at the Cleveland Clinic. Problem finally fixed after months of tinkering.

Nope.

Another cardiac procedure was required last month.

Maggie and I have been there for nail-biting hours, stretching into days.

She works virtually in a waiting area, a makeshift office.

I lose my mind.

I read. I pace.

Because the hallways are like airport concourses, I can walk to infinity and beyond. To distract myself, I study their extensive art collection. That’s when I found my guy, my port in the storm.

The Letter Man.

To me, the statue is more than a stainless-steel alphabet balanced on river rock.

 Because I am a writer, he represents the seated image of what constantly swirls in my head. Letters in search of words in search of sentences.

In his case, streams of letters pour down his arms, around his back, across his head. I feel that myself—the meaningful rush of them forming story islands.

The plaque nearby calls him Cleveland Soul by Jaume Plensa, an artist devoted from childhood to books and language who explains: “I always dreamed about transforming letters into something physical.”

So did I.

On each walk, the statue becomes my destination. I want to crawl into that metal lap, and I don’t think he would mind. After all, we are related.

Lettered siblings grasping for meaning, waiting in the deep, silent sea of possibility.

Because all of us assembled at the clinic hold our breath for whatever happens in operating rooms above us, knowing we’ll need waves of letters.

For the resulting stories.