For a Monday it had the ring of a normal day: the kids had an 8:20 ortho appointment, somewhere to be. I saw them off and cooked breakfast and there was a gay aura about the house. The chiming rhythm of schedule, of circumstance. But all too soon it was over and everyone was home again with nothing much to do. June. The foxgloves were up and the moon was getting fat. We saw a raccoon in broad daylight. We watched TV. I walked to the lake in the morning. Got online. Did push-ups, cleaned my night guard. I looked haggard but enjoyed the novelty of it. Then the look turned real, turned inwards. They say the body is the outermost layer of the mind. And mine needs a good scrub.

Categories: microblogging, parenting, writing

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