No present like the time

Ginger is on top of a stuffed rabbit with a squeaker, looks like she’s sodomizing it. The rabbit has a cartoon eye, looks nonplussed. Ginger thrashes it to break the neck, sniffs its underside, walks off distracted, comes back.

I slowed time down to half-speed by getting up early, walking, idling: played a board game with Lily on the couch and balanced the board on our laps, had to hold on as the pieces and the cards tried to slide off. It made me nervous, but I got through.

Someone called because she found our cat and I asked, is she bothering you? She said no…so I said, let her go. We’re probably irresponsible, out here in the suburbs: she said she never sees cats just roaming around here, like that. Go fuck yourself, I wanted to say. But she had our number, and our cat.

I opened a beer at 2, put the Cocteau Twins on. It’s been sunny, but there’s a thin layer of clouds now like muscle tissue pulled across the sky, making everything milky-pale. It’s a stark time, a time for poetry: the trees gone gray and bone-like with holes for eyes, everything living is hanging on, laying low, holding out.

The cats bring back shrews and I pick them up by the tail and toss them in the trash, so the dogs won’t eat them.

Dawn and I dig through our storage area to make a pathway for the Christmas stuff. We find a box with love letters her dad sent to her mom, which we have for some reason, and it makes Dawn cry. That’s the thing about digging through your stuff, you find things you forgot, things that make you cry.

Ginger bares her teeth and shows the whites in her eyes. Minnie is a Boston Terrier who’s had seizures and now most of her brain is gone. She fights to the death; they make each other bleed and bite at the neck.

Minnie has a skin condition that makes her hair fall out, so she’s always cold and nervous, like an old man with black marbles for eyes, falling out of the sockets, shaking. Her eyes search mine for compassion and warmth, but find no results.

The trees catch fire this time of day, by the angle of the sun sneaking through. I make kindling with the hatchet and if anyone watched, they’d say I shouldn’t do it that way; I take too many chances, I cut it too close.

The sky goes down from blue to orange, to white, like a flame on the range about to go out, makes that sucking sound before it goes out…like time going backwards, up the chute.

Night falls hard like a drunk, earlier than you’d think, the same as last night.

The animals bed down, and the kids go quiet. The wood stove is a constant hush, and the fan blows warmth over us.

The stars are coming out and the night is cold and tightening up. It’s hard to say goodbye when we don’t know what to say, and so we smile and leave the room, close the door, return to our lives, separate ourselves.

I text a friend and might walk to his house but have to wait for him to put his kids down and I don’t know if I’ll be up for walking by then. I’ve taken to recording my life when I should be living it, instead. You can’t do both, really. The recording’s not as good.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in humor and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

14 Responses to No present like the time

  1. alesiablogs says:

    Dawn and I dig through our storage area to make a pathway for the Christmas stuff. We find a box with love letters her dad sent to her mom, which we have for some reason, and it makes Dawn cry. That’s the thing about digging through your stuff, you find things you forgot, things that make you cry.

    Now that statement got to me as I could relate.

    Like

  2. Elyse says:

    I stopped looking at the stuff that makes me cry. It is hard to get past the sadness when I do.

    Like

  3. rossmurray1 says:

    You keep making me think of writers. Have you read Richard Ford? I read “Independence Day” and “The Sportswriter” in that (wrong) order. I have the third Frank Bascombe book sitting here beside me, and I wonder if I should read it next. He takes concentration. I don’t know if I have it these days.
    Another great post.

    Like

    • pinklightsabre says:

      I don’t read enough, truly. So no unfortunately I haven’t. Maybe you could make me a reading list for Christmas!? Thank you for reading and acting as inspiration for my writing. I was thinking about you today and wondering how your other writing project is going. I’m going to try to take a nap now, on the couch. Thank god for Sunday afternoons.

      Like

      • rossmurray1 says:

        Fits and starts but always lingering there.
        Feel no guilt about not reading, especially if you’re writing. There’s only so much time in the day, even when it’s slowed down. Go nap; I slept in til 9:30 today…

        Like

  4. ksbeth says:

    It’s been sunny, but there’s a thin layer of clouds now like muscle tissue pulled across the sky, making everything milky-pale. It’s a stark time, a time for poetry. (wonderful stuff) live your life and tell the tale later. possible and important to do both when you can – beth

    Like

Please share your thoughts!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s