Even if obscured by overcast weather,

the Hunter’s Moon

still radiates.

It maintains a steadfast presence

until the building clouds, as they always do,

are dispersed by the wind.

Then the night sky is illuminated once more

so those fortunate enough to look up

will be in awe.

Ignore outside forces

attempting

to lessen your uniqueness.

Reject negativity,

both external and internal,

that questions your worth.

Share what you have to offer

to shine on others,

like a Hunter’s Moon.

Alistair Boyd was fired from his position as head of marketing for gross incompetence after only two months. An ad campaign costing $10,000,000 the supposed merchandising prodigy spearheaded was an utter failure. Swift backlash from the public, particularly parents, was resonating. The board of directors wanted immediate answers when market shares tumbled overnight. It eclipsed the Bud Light debacle. This will be taught in business schools as another example of why you shouldn’t alienate your consumer base.

The COO, Harmony Featherstone, is in full-blown damage control addressing the throng of media asking the same question: “Does Kellogg’s regret unceremoniously firing Crackle?” With poised diplomacy, she explains mistakes were made, that decisions were based on skewed data extrapolated from just one focus group comprised solely of witches. “So, it’s now apparent ‘Cackle’ was not a suitable replacement spokesperson as my former director assured me. And for that, I apologize. The lesson we can take from this is that thinking outside the box is not always the correct approach, especially when cereal is involved.”

Harmony emphasizes how important Kellogg’s reputation is and how she and her team are dedicated to winning back the trust of the customers. She assures everyone, “Kellogg’s has reached out to Crackle’s lawyers in hopes of turning the page by making things right. I, along with Snap and Pop, look forward to sitting down for a productive, face-to-face discussion as to how we can repair partnerships, put this behind us and focus on delivering a nutritious product that has been and always will be enjoyed at breakfast tables by families for generations.”

She finishes the press conference by mentioning, “Also, despite rumors being spread on social media, Circe the Black Cat was never in consideration for taking the spot of Tony the Tiger.” This is a lie.

In a conference room atop the headquarters at 1 General Mills Boulevard, Count Chocula is watching the press briefing with the Berry brothers, Boo and Franken. “And that’s why,” he declares, “we haven’t ever solicited advice from a coven.”

Returning to my desk, I realize something’s missing. “Honey, I don’t remember where I put my glasses,” I announce to my wife. She won’t know where they are because she’s been in the front room reading while I’ve been in the den at the computer.

“‘Where are my glasses?’ the lobotomy patient said absentmindedly,” she verbally lunges from afar.

To her credit, that was a great comeback. But I’ll keep my compliment bottled up for the time being. “Technically, if I was a lobotomy patient, I’d blissfully forget having glasses in the first place, so this conversation wouldn’t be happening,” I parry, attempting to negate her sarcasm with logic.

“But having a lobotomy wouldn’t correct your vision, so at some point you’d realize you needed glasses and here we’d be,” she ripostes, still out of sight.

My counterattack didn’t put a dimple in her vocal armor. Leery of fighting a war on two fronts, I relent to redirect my energy to the initial, pressing battle: Find the glasses I had on before getting a drink.

“Let me retrace my steps,” I acquiesce.

“Okay, I’m here if you need me,” she offers with a heavy, rhetorical overtone.

Despite compromised vision, I decline her assistance. “I’m good.”

Standing with beverage in hand, I survey the desktop, assuring my cheaters weren’t buried under the miscellaneous paperwork. Then I execute a 360-degree scan of the adjacent furnishings in the room to no avail. This means I had them on my way to the kitchen. I replicate and peruse the route taken when leaving the den.

Scouring the kitchen with the same meticulousness used previously ends with a similar outcome. Desperation creeps in which fuels an illogical urge to look in abstract locations for my wayward lenses. So, I check the refrigerator. Then the microwave. Then the bread box. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

I contemplate inspecting the garbage disposal since there’s a one in a trillion chance my glasses fell in without me noticing them departing my face or hearing them hit a drain opening they couldn’t pass through unimpeded unless folded and orientated vertically. I snap back to reality, but still flip the switch for confirmation the chamber is empty. It is.

Hoping a view from a different perspective will yield better results, I backtrack to the den. Then repeat this roundtrip. Neither are fruitful. So, my glasses are lost forever, sucked into some transportational vortex to another dimension. Out of frustration, I put my hands on my head and feel the telltale plastic frame that’s been securely hitchhiking there the entire time.

I let out a sigh/“Dammit” combination.

From the other room, “What now?”

“Never mind, found them.”

“Good for you.”

I slide my specs into their rightful position on my nose. At this advanced stage of my life, would LASIK surgery be beneficial to eliminate the need for glasses, thus avoiding the possibility of repeating anguished searching in the future? Maybe. But first, where in the Hell did I leave my drink?

How I feel Autumn’s ache

of being forced to bid us “Goodbye.”

Of ceding the landscape’s rustic palette

to Winter’s overbearing, slate gray sky.

As Autumn remains dormant

slumbering under a fleece of melting snow,

waiting patiently for the moment to stir,

allowing Spring’s bounty ample time to grow.

Having endured Summer’s long, parched days

wilting from the incessant, soaring degrees,

then Autumn can burst forth once again,

regaling us with a kaleidoscope of earth-tone leaves.

The dorm party ends. Madison tells her roommate, “Gotta get something from my car.” Shelby replies, “Be safe.” Madison assures her, “I will.”

On a side street, the imposing figure’s approach doesn’t deviate. Madison reminds herself, “Stay calm, breathe. Project confidence.”

“You shouldn’t be out here alone this late.” Madison’s arms instinctively extend. The struggle is brief, with no time to scream for help.

Licking the corners of her mouth, Madison smirks. She internalizes, “Shelby doesn’t know how fortunate she is I happened upon this innocent donor tonight. With my bloodlust satiated, she can live for now. But come midterms…”

I was hoping my heartfelt apology, cooking your favorite dinner and letting you have ultimate control of the t.v. remote for the rest of the month would make amends. But upon opening the pantry and seeing you bought Unfrosted Strawberry Pop Tarts, it sent a clear, passive-aggressive message that you’re still mad at me.

You came into this world my precious child and my life forever changed. How can such a tiny baby make such a big impact? When I gaze into those ever-searching eyes, I imagine the future that lies ahead and cannot help but smile. I'll protect you throughout the years, even when you feel too old for such parenting. Hold my finger and allow me to rediscover the world as we begin our fascinating journey through life. I’m so very happy that I have you by my side.

Tomorrow is birthday number nine. I sit and wonder how I let the years elapse unimpeded. I should have done more to push back against their relentless onslaught. But I couldn’t. Or didn’t. You went from a helpless infant to a crawling baby to an unsteady toddler to a running child. Growth and experience have dominated these formative years. I answered your questions while you questioned my answers. And we both learned. You know much but still have more to absorb. I begrudgingly accept that each day expands your world and loosens my grip. Even more reason I’m thankful for when you slow down long enough to walk by my side.

On the eve of your high school graduation. I've watched you mature 12 of the last 18 years around a busy school calendar. From artwork on the fridge to college applications in the mail, our priorities shifted. Your self-esteem and independence have expanded from the morning we walked to the end of the driveway together, waiting with trepidation for the overwhelming yellow bus to arrive. This was one of the few times I released your hand first. Now, while you drive to school and points beyond, the trepidation is all mine. As a teenager constantly on the move, I still catch glimpses of those ever-searching eyes. When your social schedule allows, I enjoy the moments you’re by my side.

The accumulated education and experiences have paid off an array of benefits as your life revolves around a spouse, career, new home and soon a family. You laid a sturdy foundation to support these adult obligations and have moved away. Turning back the years is impossible but I find myself searching through childhood items I’ve kept in your old toy chest. These outdated souvenirs document cherished times we shared, unleashing a wave of emotions. I wish these long-forgotten mementos would magically stop the world from spinning, preventing us from slipping further into the past. But that doesn’t happen. Although physically separated by miles, having a phone enables me to bring you back by my side.

Standing near my bed, you see that my body is worn down while my mind is tired. You stopped holding my finger for support a lifetime ago and now lovingly caress my hand to say good-bye. Time will, without exception, prevail, outlasting another worthy opponent to remain undefeated. You will always be my precious child for that has never changed. A peace comes over me now that, once again, I have you by my side.

My book is closed, but yours is still being written. I was blessed we co-authored so many incredible stories. Now my grandchildren are giving you the opportunity to rediscover the world, just as I did when you were born. You will continue your fascinating journey through life without me, although never alone. Because I will always be, in spirit, by your side.

My superhero/alter ego is, *drumroll*: Captain Procrastination Man.

CPM is at your beck and call in time of need. As long as the need isn’t right this second because I’m totally swamped with tying up scads of loose ends. You know, those annoying little chores that can’t be put off any longer. Tomorrow though, tomorrow I anticipate being free all day for sure…oh shoot, now that I think of it, tomorrow is no bueno. Let’s pencil you in for Wednesday after 11 a.m. but before lunch.

Actually, the rest of the week doesn’t work. My kid’s sick and there’s that thing I’ve been meaning to do. Can we push your need back a week? Whatever day’s good for you, I’ll set an appointment reminder in my phone. After I pay some bills.

Looking ahead, the holidays are almost upon us. I’m sure the associated chaos will be overwhelming. With my track record, I should err on the side of caution. Let’s put a pin in your need and circle back to revisit getting my assistance right after New Years. Once the calendar is flipped, I’ll be laser-focused 24ish/7(or 6)/359. You have my word.

Never fear, help is here, no later than January 3rd. That lets me remodel the guest bathroom, change the AC filter and get the cat neutered before filing my 2021 through 2023 tax extensions. Fingers crossed a winter storm doesn’t close the airport. Or I might binge watch Season 5 of Yellowstone. Either way, I'll make it a priority to answer your call for help. Or at least respond with a text before going to bed.

FYI, if I need to gas up the Avoidancemobile, factor in an extra ten minutes for travel time. Eighteen tops.

Stay strong. I’ll be right there.