MISVISION Next to me at the DMV, you made sense of blurry letters. You saw lights flash temple-level. You bragged about missed speeding fines, then mentioned that time I left-turned from the wrong lane and got a ticket. Like charm is a part of it. I once mistook a stop sign for a basketball hoop.You took air shots, cheered yourself on. Sometimes I can’t make sense of words at the grocery and I remember my mother applying mascara a quarterinch from the mirror. Gunky streaks on the glass. I’m tired of trying to focus. When scanning the baking aisle I ask you where the hell is the brown sugar, you point, you smile, like you know something special. Really you are dumb and forget several things on the list. Same smile when I stuttered through letters at the DMV, couldn’t see the red lights flashing until the woman clued me where to look. Don’t tell me I need glasses. Don’t tell me I passed because she felt sorry for me. I can gunk up the mirrors and still be charming when I want to. For different reasons than you think I get a lot of relief from closing my eyes.