My wife says to me, “you’re getting more distinguished every day.” I’m still not able to see the gray specs unless I enlarge one of the pictures we recently had taken, but my hair isn’t the only thing turning gray. I’m only thirty-eight. Physically I’m probably a little older, since I never did much to maintain my health, but what I notice most can’t be seen with the eye. I’m turning gray inside. I don’t think it’s an age thing. I don’t feel old. I feel gray. I’ve never been a highly driven person, but I used to think I knew what was right and what I wanted from life. That was a long time ago, and I destroyed those dreams with my own hands. I grew new ones, and I clung to faded memories of a voice that gave me purpose; “you’re going to be a preacher.” Recently I considered that old memory once more. It wasn’t a command. It was a prophecy. Well then, I guess I don’t have to worry so much about trying to make it happen, but if I heard anything at all beyond the imaginations of a boy wanting to be like his daddy, does it not require something of me? I claim to know very little anymore. My internal vision is as dim as my eyes. I do what is in front of me and resist anything that disrupts my daily life any more than necessary. I am turning gray, and most of the time that’s ok.