this is the year that

this is the year that, at the age of 43,

I had my first paranormal experience:

in a photo I took in port townsend at dusk

of my kids standing in front of the manresa castle hotel,

clearly apparent in a bottom corner, well away from

the lens flares from the sun behind the roof,

was a small blue orb, which corresponded to the phenomena

other guests had encountered, which I only learned of later

when I read the binder in our room, silently to myself.

that was the only weird thing that happened there,

unless you count having to walk down the hall

to get to our own private bathroom.

a couple days later, though, when we got back home,

I realized there had been an even weirder thing,

and that was the fact that I hadn’t felt panic

or even been inclined to wonder, for the first time in my life,

if there was some kind of hotline an adult should call

to report the occurrence of something

explainable only outside the realm of science.

the truth was, my realization continued,

I wished instead for another kind of hotline:

one for reporting to the proper authorities

that someone loved me again.

someone found me funny and smart

and sexy and accomplished,

and I was eager to go on the record

that I felt the same about her.

the paranormal, I knew now, instintively it turned out,

shouldn’t be more remarkable than love.

what’s going on with some old spirit

in a broken record-type, timeless loop,

that’s a back page blurb, at best.

the front page, whose fold we iron out each morning

with a firm snap, hoping to pop into place

the headline that will make a difference in our lives,

is where the living walk among us

in an unpredictable trajectory

that intersects with our dead hearts

to spoil the dull photograph of existence

with the colorful bloom of happiness.