Summer ran down. The mosquitoes had no need for me, my blood was bad. They sat on me with their proboscises out but couldn’t get it in. But the flies! Flies all over me, mistaken me for dead, for excrement. We had a bear walk right up the road (Lily got a picture of it) to check out the cherry tree. It’s hard to tell if the relationship between the cat and the neighborhood crows is friendly or adversarial. Some follow her around, hoping for the remains of whatever bird or bunny she’s maimed and lost interest in. The flies come for the last of the cherries, the small bits on the stone. And there’s something nice about that: in nature there’s a place for everyone.

We used to go to bars, we’d always have two drinks and occasionally, three. I’d drive home on the interstate with the sun roof open to let the air in. I’d take the exit and the roundabout and then climb the hill past the school, the park and ride and finally, our place. That’s all a memory now…a long goodbye.

When I tan, the color of my skin is less brown and more of a sweet vermouth that’s gone off, a bit ruddy. I sat pretty smug on our chaise lounge with my Friday cocktail, the grapefruit I use for a drink garnish looking compromised with strips of its skin removed like one of those African diseases or the singer Seal’s complexion. Some tribal rites thing, my grapefruit.

We look at each other now in boxes on screens with our drinks, and text photos at night. I prepped a camp fire and propped the kindling in a triangle and ordered a pizza on my app. It’s Friday! Soon the lawn will brown and we’ll be wondering what’s next. In nature there’s a place for everyone, in politics, not.

Categories: humor, prose, writing

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