How quickly our house would disappear beneath the forest, were we all to disappear too. And that’s a good reminder of our insignificance. How those brutish landscapers we hired just used their weed whackers to trim the rhododendrons, and cleft them like cabbage. More and more people are collecting at the lake now even though the signs tell us, please don’t. Talk of strains, an illustration of an angry-looking wave building in a blackened sea. Waking Monday morning to that. Reading my phone in bed, walking to the lake, getting online, shutting down. Loading and unloading the dishwasher. The compost. Pilling the dog, the kids. Losing the remote. Dead-heading the new hanging pot and everyone jumping up when the delivery driver pulls up the street. Ice cream trucks in the summer, that queer warbly sound they made as they wound through our neighborhood in north Philly. They all deal drugs, someone said. The warmth of my hat when I put it on my knee. Tonight, the full moon! May 2020. A new page on the calendar with its tongue hanging out to either tease or to taunt us: and our insignificance, a new getting through.
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Categories: Memoir, microblogging, prose, writing
Bill Pearse 