There was a problem with the house work I think. I couldn’t stop going between the laundry room and the den and lost track of who I was, I got covered in dog hair and slacks I wore across Europe and a wrinkled shirt. My hair like this. I sorted the kids’ clothes and moved them from the top of the washer to the top of the dryer so they’d stay warm and rearranged the socks so they all faced the same way. And then I took the recycling out and the dishes and vacuumed and emptied the canister. I couldn’t stop writing and none of it made sense. I went back to the sofa in the den the part the dog threw up on I cleaned but Dawn scowled I guess I didn’t do it right so I did it again and then lay there and couldn’t smell a thing. The rain fell like it would that way forever. The sound of the pork browning the same, a whisper. I cooked and cleaned and tried to nap but couldn’t and considered a shower or walk but felt like neither and went back to the den. It wasn’t long before the rain came back like the homeless, like family you don’t want to see but they’re always coming back and getting worse pooling around the yard, patting at the panes, rain changing to showers, showers changing to rain. I walked to the lake and read what I wrote but it sounded the same. Someone standing on the dock with an umbrella. Two ducks. I felt it inside me like a hole in my chest walking back. I thought someone driving by would recognize me and I would look normal again but no one did. I let the anger in me spin and burn, I thought there was something I could do with it. There was nothing about the sky worthwhile and when I got home I smiled and got ready for our guests.

Categories: musings, prose

Tags: depression, postaday, William Pearse writer, writing