Like the sound of a vertebrae popping I broke the spine on my book and it let out a gasp, an audible puff. The book is weathered and crinkles when it shifts in my lap. The clock metes out moments, click click click…the solemn swinging, the weight, the tension. I was struck in my car last night, stopped at a light. In a second my body thrust forward, out of time: or brought into it, all at once. They’ve sent for the medical adjuster. And I worry if the car, and my neck, will ever be the same.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way, but the day turned out better than we thought. The low light caught the tops of the trees with a dab of gold and pink. The earth damp with cedar and pine. Postal trucks and the odd, 24-hour emergency sewage service. Things could be worse, I thought. And I let the dog take a long, distracted whiff from a bush. We had plans, and nothing to worry about. The kids were still at home. We both had jobs (more or less), and good wine in the garage.

Then how the color fell from the sky to a sad, deep blue. And the lights, oh the lights! Thank god for the twinkly lights on the timer, the cheery lights. Though they were plastic, how they looked like snow flakes, and scintillated like stars.

We sank back into ourselves. I dropped into bed and disappeared. Then rose and studied the sky, the same deep blue. The shades gone to this slow procession. And the earth, ground to a sudden halt…

And the next day, to spring! God speed, to spring! What little light from this, these broken clouds.

Categories: Memoir, prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, Memoir, pacific northwest, prose, short form, stream-of-consciousness, William Pearse writer