The firepit, my bloody toe. We slept with all the windows open and it felt like camping. Four years later and we finally moved that mound of soil to the vegetable garden. It takes a global pandemic for us to get around to things. I filled the hole where a cottonwood rotted out, could fit a mid-sized car in that. It took many loads of wood chips and a lot of raking. We tossed bags of weeds and garden clippings in there, the fern fronds I pruned back in March. But it started looking ghetto and I couldn’t take it anymore. I burned all my arm hair off by the fire pit with a bucket of pine cones I dropped in. And walked the yard barefoot looking for the moon but it was nowhere to be seen. The cat caught a baby bunny but we saved it. I let my face get burned thinking it might kill anything that needed killing. And fell asleep to the sound of fans cutting air in equal parts, blade by blade.

Categories: humor, microblogging, prose, writing

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