Wild Country cologne hangs in the air as
I travel down the hallway from my bedroom
to the bathroom where the curling iron needs
to be plugged in and turned on in order to get
proper curl for my 80’s hairdo—it only takes an
hour to achieve. Pausing for a brief second at the
top of the stairs, I see Dad sitting in the living
room’s catty-cornered, burnt orange naugahyde
rocker recliner with the King James version
opened onto his lap just like any other early
Sunday morning since I can remember.
While I prepare hair and makeup for my crush at
church, he prepares his heart and mind for church.
Thirty years later, I plug my curling iron into the
wall socket and connect my heart to his.