Upper Mississippi Mile 93 near Seventy-Six Conservation Area – November 10, 2012

I remember the waves on Lake Superior, how I crashed through them laughing, how the bow-sprayed water fell on my smile, how they lifted me into the air and I felt alive.

Now there are more waves. Built in a fierce south wind, they crash and splatter, choppy against the current, and I hate them.

I tell myself it’s because the water is dirty, because the waves aren’t sharp, because I don’t want to get wet on a cold day. I string together reasons, hang them up in my mind, stand back and smile smugly, point to them, admire them.

“See,” I say. “That’s why this isn’t fun. That’s why I hate the waves.”

I say it loud, again and again, pouring my lungs into it like I can convince myself if I shout enough.

But it’s all lies.

I can hang all the reasons I want, but should hang a mirror with them.