Growing a bear — a midnight occupation,



the need for which you perhaps first realized



when you saw the wrong kind of shadow







under your chin — a convex when you expected



concave, so now it’s clear



you’re getting older. Your wife was in the shower







and you wanted to step inside



and soap her up like you did in college when she said







“I’ll shower with you, but I’m leaving



my underwear on,” and you enjoyed her



in every way you could enjoy a person with soap.







You didn’t join your wife in the shower.



She’s gotten funny about letting you see her



shave her legs or wash herself anywhere.







You think she read it somewhere —



that letting your husband see you pluck anything,



trim anything, apply medicine to anything,



will make him feel like he’s furniture.







It’s exactly on cold nights like these that the basement



is not as forbidding as it should be, despite the fact



that you have to put gloves on



in what is part of your own home.







Downstairs, a large bathtub, kept, for some reason,



after remodeling. It is there that your bear will be grown,



by you, though you have no idea how. Probably wishing







is most of it; fertilizer, chunks of raw stew meat,



handfuls of blackberries, two metal rakes, and a thick rug



make up the rest. Then water.







You get an e-mail from a friend late at night



saying he can’t sleep. You write back



“I hope you feel sleepy soon” and think how childish



the word “sleepy” is. And you’re a man,



older than most of the people you see on television.







You haven’t even considered how your wife will feel



when you have finished growing your bear. You could



write a letter to her tonight, explaining how your life



was just so lacking in bear:







“Janet, it’s nothing you’ve done —



clearly you have no possible way of supplying me with a bear



or any of the activities I might be able to enjoy



after acquiring the bear.”







It might just be best



to keep the two worlds separate.



Janet clearly prefers things to be comfortable



and unchallenging. Janet soaps herself up. Janet puts herself



to bed, and you just happen to be next to her.







You go on your weekly bike ride with Mark and tell him



that you’ve been growing a bear. An eighteen-wheeler



flies by and he doesn’t seem to hear you —



plus he’s focused on the hill.







You think about how not all friends know



what each other sounds like when struggling and



breathing heavy. Past the age of college athletics,



most friends don’t even know what each others’ bodies



look like, flushed, tired, showering, cold.





