The Brace   I was afraid to look at it, afraid to touch it. The cold steel plate that mapped the curve of his torso, the canvas straps, buckles — when it was invoked, I obeyed.   It scared me more than the scar itself, neck to tailbone, the incision and the sutures, a faint pink highway of pain. I knew the story: Montana, a horse, the wreck.   He never complained — not to me. He’d say, Maybe you can help me . . . and Mom would add, Or does your dad have to put on the brace? As soon as he died she threw it away.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont October 2009