Tuesday, May 22 6:40 PM

I cleaned the drain traps, packed my lunch, said goodbye to the kids and left for work. When I got home I took my socks off and went outside barefoot, spilled my beer, had to go inside for another. The cottonwood blooms kept falling like snow, the way snow stops and starts again, sometimes thick. When the dog ran through the grass it rose in the air and fell like packing material. I sat listening to the birds riffing off each other and it felt symphonic. I’d been beaten down again at work but it felt good. I agreed with where they were going and it drove my writing to higher quality. My gut was enflamed which sounds bad and looks worse. I came inside to write on my phone before starting the coals and reset the clock in the den. Tuesday. As a four-day week, it qualified as Wednesday, in a sense.

About pinklightsabre

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

14 Responses to Tuesday, May 22 6:40 PM

  1. kingmidget says:

    I’m still struggling with this … “spilled my beer”

    Like

  2. walt walker says:

    The cottonwood is not strictly a local phenomenon, I’ve found out. It’s snow globey down here in Oregon and Idaho too.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. ksbeth says:

    i love the start of your day. cleaning the traps. it can only go up from there.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Why do I feel nostalgic over that iPod?

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Work. Curse of the beer-in-the-back-garden class.

    Like

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