Nervous, the dog follows me up the hill looking for the moon. Last day of July. It wasn’t long after I tied up all the daisies they died. Because it couldn’t give me everything I wanted, I kept going back to work email for something new. Another month with its tongue wagging, all those empty squares. An advent calendar with nothing but empty foil. I played my wireless speaker in the dark and sat outside as the night came on and the wind picked up and the candle died down. The dog pawed at the door wanting in. The dog pawed at the door wanting out. There was no way out, no escape.

Categories: microblogging, prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, Memoir, mid-life crisis, pacific northwest, William Pearse writer