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The Carbon Cycle
“Do you see this spot here?” he says. The man next to me in the subway points at his wrist with a toothpick and says, “Do you see this right here? This once belonged to Abraham Lincoln. This tiny piece right here,” he says.
I look at the man dressed in faded overalls sitting in a crowd of black suits and ties. He gestures again, waving his dusty hand, and I smell soil and sweat. I lean away from him, jostling as the railcar rocks. He moves closer and brings his wrist right up to my face. I see no hair follicle, no mole or beauty mark, no scar. I see nothing.
“I don’t see a spot right there,” I say to him.
“Well it’s right here,” he says, pointing again. He says, “It’s right here. If you knew exactly where to look, you could see it.”
“This right here used to be part of Abraham Lincoln,” he says.
I roll my eyes and scoff. When he persists, I wrinkle my brow and squint my eyes at the spot I still can’t see. The man leans forward to look at his wrist and brings his head close to mine. I look up at his face, his cracked lips, his wrinkles, his liver-spot-speckled skin.
“How did it get there?” I say.
“Do you know what an atom is?” he says. He pulls out a tattered page that says “Mendeleev” from his shirt pocket and says, “Do you know atoms are what the world is made out of?”
I tell him that I know all about atoms.
“Well this atom right here,” he says pointing to his wrist, “This atom belonged to Abraham Lincoln.”
“How did you get it?” I say. “How did you end up with Abraham Lincoln’s atoms?”
“Not atoms,” he says to me. “Atom.” He says, “Just one.”
I wrinkle my brow again.
“I’ll tell you how I got it,” he says. “When Abraham Lincoln was shot, my great-great-great-great grandfather was at the theater,” he says. He says, “Now, when Abraham Lincoln was shot, my great-great-great-great grandfather offered his handkerchief to help with the bleeding. Well, when the bleeding didn’t stop and Abraham Lincoln was dead, my great-great-great-great grandfather asked for his handkerchief back.”
The man points to his paper that says “Mendeleev.” He points to a big “C” on his paper.
“Carbon” he says. He taps the “C” and says, “Abraham Lincoln’s blood left little bits of carbon all over that handkerchief.”
I stare at his dirty fingernail touching the “C.” I try not to look at the spot of Abraham Lincoln on his wrist.
“When my great-great-great-great grandfather got back home, he buried the handkerchief in the ground.” He says, “He buried the handkerchief that had Abraham Lincoln’s carbon all over it.”
“If he buried it then how did you get it?” I say. I say to him, “I don’t understand how you got Mr. Lincoln’s carbon if it was buried.”
“Corn,” he says.
“What?” I say.
“Corn,” he says. “My great-great-great-great grandfather passed his land onto my great-great-great grandfather. Then my great-great-great grandfather passed the land onto my great-great-grandfather.” He says, “Then my great-great grandfather passed the land onto my great grandfather, and my great grandfather planted corn.”
“Corn?” I say.
“Corn,” he says. He says, “My great grandfather planted corn for fifty years.”
“Corn,” I say.
“Corn,” he says. He says, “Now some of this corn got Abraham Lincoln’s carbon in it from the ground where that handkerchief was buried. When I was growing in my mother’s belly, she ate some of this corn that had Abraham Lincoln’s carbon in it, and one piece of it went into building me,” he says.
I look up into the man’s eyes. I look into his brown eyes and I see the farm. The corn. The atom. “I see it now,” I say. I point to his wrist. I say to him, “I see the spot right here. And the piece that once belonged to Abraham Lincoln.”
I point at his wrist as the railcar lurches to a stop. My finger touches the spot. My finger touches the piece of Abraham Lincoln.
I look down at my kneecap sticking out from my business skirt. I look at it and point to a small blemish, and the man leans forward to look. He brings his nose so close to my knee that I can feel his hot breath on my leg.
The old man stares at my knee for a few seconds. “Nefertiti,” he says.
“Nefertiti,” I say.
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