Prism

The neighbor kid is still working on our leaves, two weeks later. The timer on the Christmas tree lights doesn’t work, so they’re on all night or not at all. The hot tub isn’t hot enough and I’m bad about adding the chemicals, so we haven’t used it in weeks. The girls look like angels when they sleep, and so I peer in at them in the morning before I go downstairs.

Last night I had the chance to tell Michael Stipe why I loved REM so much, through video conference, in a dream. I said I don’t want to shower you with compliments, so consider this a fine mist.

When it ends, I leave the house and walk to the bus stop. Our road is full of pot holes and I navigate them in the dark, looking for the reflection of light in the water, a break in the pattern of the road.

Life is like this: I didn’t get a chance to script it and I don’t know how it’s going to end.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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