Self Portrait 43
By Dave
Mirror eyes, mirror eyes,
round glass circles, bald dome hum,
beard heavy as a cathedral door.
Every line a ledger, every hair a tally—
Who are you?
Forty-three.
Divorced.
Never a dad.
Traveler, teacher, journeyman of chalk dust and coffee rings.
Forty-three.
Half a tank of gas through this highway called life,
still stopping at small-town museums,
still scribbling journals in dim light,
still chasing Hopper’s shadows, Turner’s storms,
Who are you?
Phones buzzing buzzing buzzing.
Kids high, kids crying, kids fists clenched.
Trauma dripping from the walls.
And out in the hall—
fire trucks, EMTs, superintendent in his polished shoes.
But me?
I don’t even know.
I’m inside the storm,
ADHD,
PowerPoints for a doctoral seminar I’m supposed to lead.
Authority, they call it—
but what does authority mean
when a mother clutches two children like life preservers?
Who are you?
Ink under skin,
roses blooming on the arm,
a compass, a ship,
Bars etched in black and shade.
The body a manuscript,
each scar a footnote,
each rose a confession.
Who are you?
Baseball bats like relics in a roadside shrine.
Brother at my side,
stadiums stitched like a quilt:
Toledo, Lansing, Busch, Kauffman.
Kissing bricks at Indy,
cracking beers in Toledo.
Life not in innings but in echoes,
scoreboard ticking forward
even when I scream for time to stop.
Who are you?
Cats—soft fur prophets,
biscuits in my lap,
purring like monks in prayer.
Tiny gods of comfort,
never asking for permission to be,
only that I stay still long enough to be chosen.
Who are you?
Raised Baptist.
“For the Bible tells me so” meant
“For the pastor tells me so.”
Faith burned down to ash,
smoke in the rafters.
Apologists talk revelation,
I see syncretism.
I read Paul.
I read Seneca.
I wrestle with Jacob under Doré’s angel.
Science is my steady flame—
not answers,
just sharper questions.
Who are you?
Teacher.
Conditional redemption.
Students stumbling, breaking, fighting.
Mothers waiting in offices,
children clutching arms.
Redemption always fragile,
always conditional,
but I stand at that edge with them.
That edge is holy ground.
Who are you?
So who am I?
Divorced, never-dad,
traveler, teacher, inked-up believer in doubt,
halfway through this cracked-open life.
Self-portrait staring back—
and still, still, still I ask:
Who are you?
Who are you?
Who are you?
Maybe the question itself,
scratched in black lines,
is the only true answer.
Maybe the asking
is the only true self-portrait.
Who are you?