paul·a·ver

“And, Mom?” Evan continues describing his day to us at dinner. “I need to tell you something. Jennifer and I exchange a parental glance. “Never mind,” he says, “No I don’t.”

Rain patters on the asphalt carrying the first perfume of an early spring.

Tony is trying to convince me to form my own LLC and go back into business for myself. “C’mon, Man,” he says. “You got skills.” “But I also have a family,” I think to myself, and I’m sure it shows on my face.

“Who speaks for the jury?” the judge asks ritually, looking down at us from his bench through wire-framed glasses and shifting his shoulders under his robe. “I do,” I say with an anxious dry mouth, standing and avoiding eye contact with either counsel. We have deliberated conscientiously for two days and I am confident with our verdict, but serving as the spokesperson for these eight other people whom I met only two-and-a-half weeks ago but already know well is the sort of responsibility that makes me shake.

I was taking stairs a little slowly and sideways when I got up this morning after yesterday’s trail run.