On my walk to the lake it was definitely May, with a thin film of fog and many colors beneath. The pink cherry blossom blooms thrown down like confetti — the robins and rabbits, all the sights and sounds of spring that otherwise fall flat from fall to winter. By the time I got to the lake it was rubbed out by fog, Scottish looking — and I imagined an old castle in the middle, on a pile of rocks. But there was just a lone fisherman in a boat, the cover of a book.

This post is for my mom, who’s just flown back to Germany today. Also to commemorate our return home to the States this time, two years ago.

Categories: musings, prose

Tags: alliteration, Memoir, pacific northwest, short form, travel, William Pearse writer