Real time

Probably the most comforting thing I could do was drink in bed. When I quit drinking I wrote a list of all the things I pledged I wouldn’t do when I started drinking again and one of the top 3 was drinking in bed. I rarely drank in bed, like once or twice a year. But when I did it was like smoking in bed, combining two favorite pleasures into one. I sat and watched the lawn guy cut our grass from the bedroom window, trying not to let him see me. I worked from home in my bedroom, the same place I slept. Mom thought that was a bad idea (no separation) and she was probably right—but there isn’t any separation. I watched him pick at something on the ground and talk to himself, mumble. Both Dawn and I wanted to quit our jobs, we were having a really hard time with the kids and it put a pall over everything. It followed us around, how depression and anxiety can. I took a long sip from my drink like I was playing the flute, blowing a bubble backwards. Self-soothing. Ginger had a fatty mass that needed removed, it would interfere with her walking. It would interfere with our wallets, too. Lily and I walked to the lake and said it felt like spring. She was getting to the bottom of it, what was ailing her. I felt considerably older. I felt exactly like my dad looked and he had just turned 70. I was just a few production models behind him, in likeness. There was no time to fix the flaws, they just got passed down and I was doing the same to my own in real time. Outside the first night frog croaked, and then a whole bunch followed suit. The sky softened and I sunk back and thought for a while, things are alright.

About pinklightsabre

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

7 Responses to Real time

  1. I reckon a few of the frog chorus could croak along to this one.


    Liked by 1 person

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