Our inability to get our kids to do stuff manifest itself most in their rooms. This week, after years of trying, I gave up. There are wet towels, empty bags of chips, old glasses of juice, clothes everywhere they should not be. It hurts to look at, but like a tabloid cover I can’t stop.

But this month is Scotch month for me: the month I dedicate to drinking Scotch. I’ll stock up on Scotch and generally nip at it through the spring, then wait until November to start all over again.

And this is like the archetype of the scorpion from the Zodiac, from astrology: the end of the lifecycle represented by this simple, old creature who must endure its own death to realize itself and transform to Phoenix. This is me collapsing inwards in my den with solemn music. And candles on the mantle, the dog by my feet on her side looking dead.

Driving home the sky was orange-red with puffy clouds and a strange glow, the wind raking the leaves off the trees, scattered by the handfuls on the streets.

We flipped the calendar like we’d accomplished something and replaced the nail in the hole with a new page, November. It’s laid out like a fresh set of sheets waiting for us to crawl into.

Categories: death, Memoir

Tags: astrology, autumn poetry, Harry Potter, journal writing, memoir writing, pacific northwest, prose, Richard Youngs, Scotch, short form, William Pearse writer