E G

I find myself looking in the mirror. More often at odd angles. Approaching from the side. A view askew through my pale eyes. Different angles offer new perspective. Like drawing pictures with lead. A turn of the page reveals an errant line. A shadow out of place. I count those pages more often. Stories each one. Lines told with hopeful outcomes. Growing deeper each time. Better left to soften out of focus. Alone on my bad side. Out of view from the mirror. But I still look for reasons, and why the seasons, turn a little grayer each time. And why in your eyes, looking back from the silver, do I still see me. Running the hills of Little Dixie. Chasing U.F.O.'s at dawn. Believing Santa wouldn't come, but Charlie and the Family would. To butcher me with knives. Childhood fears grown into years of reality. A borderline personality. Yes, I can tell you stories. Of haunted houses and nightmares come true. But you. You still look good E.G. Between Charlie, the mirror and me. E.G. Maynard. 46 & 2. 3.