The Paper Route at Fifty

When my son turned twelve, he got a paper route. Three weeks in, he got the flu, and I took over for him. At five in the morning, at fifty years old, in my bathrobe and sneakers.

I hadn't been awake at that hour in years. I discovered that my neighborhood is a different place before dawn. There's a man who does tai chi in his driveway in the dark. There's a baker unloading flour from a van. There's a fox that trots down the middle of Elm Street like it owns the place.

I threw papers onto porches, mostly accurately. A retired teacher waiting at her door said, "You're not Tyler," and gave me a muffin anyway.

My son got better in a week. I kept getting up early. Now I walk the route with him on Saturdays. He throws. I wave at the tai chi man. We get muffins from the teacher.