It was sheared off a couple inches above the ankle, and from its puckered flesh poked a stub of bone, a distal tibia I think it's called. A lumpy jelly burbled up and out of the shaft. It ran down the heel and over my fingers. I cannot say how long I squatted motionless in the yellow glare riveted to my unearthly little trophy, but I was long in getting over it. Homer was right.
Marrow does burble.
And I began to wonder. After that, in odd moments and there are plenty of odd moments in a warI began to recast Homer in my head. I soon found out just how much I had remembered and how many of those tired old scenes were charged now with a significance I had to learn. All those episodes I had riffled through so casually now became important to me. Homer knew that.