I’d been expecting her Uncle Pat to come
meet me and when I pulled open the door,
there he stood, filling the door frame,
big enough to blot out the sun, 
made even taller by black alligator boots
dulled by the south Texas dust still clinging to them
and a black Stetson
sitting centered above a wind-weathered face.
He didn’t bother coming across the threshold.
Just took off his hat and said
Hi, I’m Pat Shannon
in a voice like a Memphis blues man and
an accent that was 4^th generation San Antonio.
You the one going to marry my niece?
a question punctuated by one raised eyebrow.
Yes, that’s right, sir.
Now he stepped into the room,
came close and crooked a smile.
Well good for you.
He stuck out a scarred and calloused hand.
The hand of a ranch-working man used to early mornings,
late nights and hard in-betweens. Used to barbed wire
and ornery cattle. Not at all like mine, but when we shook,
it felt like family.

– Paul Bluestein