Where did all the goldfish come from? They came from a bag seasoned with cheese. After some beer I set into them with vigor and watch the lilies waggle in the breeze. I get a letter from my mom, handwritten! I read it twice, admiring the familiar loops and touches, imagining her voice. She’s included an article from the newspaper on the lost art of letters. I’ll keep it. The wind comes through the trees like hands clapping, the leaves make the sound of applause. The daisies are at their peak, some toppling over, all smell like urine. I spilled coffee on my shirt walking to the lake, just missed my mouth. I felt terribly old at times but couldn’t say why. The full moon’s arc is like the winter sun, low and discreet. Muddled-looking through broken clouds, though we stayed up late trying to see it. Some dragon’s snout pushed the clouds along…

The cat’s silhouette cuts smooth like a snowdrift. A hummingbird’s nest in a hollow wooden bowl covered by lichen, the mother feeding her young. The din of insects at dusk, of bickering crows. Last night’s wood fire still broods, it hangs in the air. I am made older by it, my inability to relate. And the desire to retreat inwards, down a path with no exit and no room to turn around.

We have come to the last part of the book and crave the reconciliation we know isn’t real but still hope it releases us, art imitating life. So much I must have missed and will never understand.

Categories: musings, prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, existentialism, Memoir, spirituality, stream-of-consciousness, William Pearse writer