The most perfect night. Perfect is a superlative, so it can’t be topped. There’s no “more perfect,” or most perfect, it’s fine on its own, it’s perfect. The first really warm day when everything takes on a different feel. The bedroom air is different, we sit outside as the sun goes down, we relish in it. I feel a mix of pride and guilt in our house, I never really appreciate it the way I should, there’s something lacking in me. I see it through the eyes of the delivery driver as he pauses to survey the back yard, is sweating and tired, needs a break, says it’s all just so natural, so perfect. He gestures to the sports court, the hammocks, the firewood. The chicken coop, the patio, the new cushions. The dog. What a life we have here! I feel bad, I should love it more. Or offer him a tip, but that feels odd. I’d rather just say thanks and wish him well and not walk him out. I have that guilt that comes from something I don’t deserve. That’s nothing to complain about, it just is.

Categories: identity, microblogging, prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, journal writing, Memoir, pacific northwest, prose, Seattle, William Pearse writer