The Why of Glasses
I missed my glasses.
Folly to mourn healing of the cranium, the return of equilibrium in the timing of an eye’s focus, no more headaches. No need.
But I missed them over and over, magic blue glasses. Instant focus not of the eyes but of the mind. Perched on my head top announcing my greatest strength and weakness: you read too much. Sexy glasses for looking through and under and over. Sat-on, slept-in, dropped, re-bent, lost and found. Scholar’s badge along with the inky fingers, thesis knee and the dent in the side of the first joint of the middle right finger.
I wanted them back, silent messengers.
They said, “I’m reading.” They said, “Quiet.” “This is serious,” they said, “Come back later.”
