paul·a·ver

“Man, those are pretty out of whack,” the glasses-adjuster tells me, squaring off my face with his eyes.

I woke up in my own bed this morning, which wasn’t exactly the plan.

Years ago, when I wore a ponytail, canvas hightops, flannel shirts, and a motorcycle jacket, when my glasses were round with cable tips, and I looked through them at the Holsteins and Herefords dotting the southern Wisconsin hills, thinking I could live well and properly by teaching, serving friends in my community by sharing thoughts and words with young people, I read poetry.

Tomorrow, Tuesday 12.19, will mark eight years since Jennifer and I were married in Larimer County, Colorado at Dannen Chapel of the YMCA of the Rockies near Estes Park. For a time the day before, we had t-shirt weather and went to chase elk and watch for bighorns near the base of the Old Fall River Road.

“Kachow!” Graham squealed as his mother exited the shower, and he flashed the headlights on his new Lightning McQueen backpack toy.