On a day without any plans we felt compelled to make some. Who gets a day with nothing to do? What time is this? I cleaned the garage, the cat box. Cooked. Did five loads of laundry. Checked the mail, paid a bill, thought about bathing but didn’t. Collected dog waste from the yard. Called about a bill. Tried to nap but couldn’t. Walked to the lake and called my mom and let her listen to the frogs in the retention pond. Stood by the window and caught myself staring in a manner that felt a bit blank.

Categories: Memoir, prose, writing

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