A stream of consciousness, passing through April

By John William Waterhouse — Wiki Commons

We felt it winding down, that April. Who gets to be in Europe for nine months like that? I had no business complaining about having to go, it was time. It was starting to leaf out on the trees along the trails there above the valley, outside my mom’s village in Germany. We felt it surrounding us, the camera lens narrowing. There were arrangements that needed to be made. That morning I left, driving to the airport with the dog and cat and stopping at the last rest area outside of Frankfurt, dosing myself on the animal tranquilizer the vet warned me about, said it’s easy to do, it seeps into the skin. But I waved him away and said yeah, yeah: and then that’s just what I did, squeezing it on some dry food in my palm, for Ginger. Getting back in the car and it kicking in. Getting out at the airport having to carry Ginger, spilling over the sides, fucked up on tranquiline. Getting through Passport Control and to the gate, buying a can of beer and drinking it down, boarding the plane for Seattle.

Denial, how good at it we become: for all we do, we have, we miss, or lack…denial…it’s how we disappear in a million places we don’t want to be seen, we get so good at it we can’t even see ourselves.

Lily in the yard late afternoon, she practices looking disaffected which really takes effort, it’s its own pose.

Ah, to go on unshowered. Though a wind storm was coming, I took the dog to the new development where they cleared out all the trees but hadn’t put in houses or poured the concrete pads yet, and the wind was especially strong there; I watched it fan back the grass the way it might on the prairie, how it flickers back like animal fur.

Fool them all but baby I can tell, you’re no stranger to the street.

Stayed up late, watched the arc of the moon crest over the house…warmed a bowl of leftover gumbo, got to bed about midnight, woke to the sound of woodpeckers. April. I just took my clothes off and left them in a pile by the bed and woke in the morning whenever, put them back on, washed up with the hand sink, got a cup of coffee, took a walk. Maybe those times weren’t meant to be remembered as much as they were, enjoyed. Or all times.

About pinklightsabre

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

8 Responses to A stream of consciousness, passing through April

  1. Beautiful post Bill. Those last two lines–GOLDEN!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. ksbeth says:

    yep, i loved your ending too – and i think it is all times, indeed –

    Like

  3. I’m sorry, but did you just quote Billy Joel?!

    Liked by 1 person

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