Tag Archives: creative nonfiction

Self portrait under August sky

Posted on August 16, 2019 by

It is a Thursday night with live music at nearby Pine Lake we can hear from our house. It is also a full moon, the night before we leave for Alaska, the coffee maker set for 3. I’ve shaved my … Continue reading →

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A fair way to go

Posted on August 15, 2019 by

It is the hour of 4, and the light is best for where I sit on the chaise-lounge, beside the scabby hot tub that’s been dry all summer. The hot tub is kaput because the large fir popped up the … Continue reading →

Posted in death, prose, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 20 Comments

The long descent through the quarry

Posted on June 21, 2019 by

I got down on my hands and knees in the shower with a toothbrush and some baking soda paste. The web site said if the drain had a musty smell that was mold, but if it was more like a … Continue reading →

Posted in Humor, identity, Memoir, prose, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 15 Comments

Broken clouds

Posted on June 5, 2019 by

Charlotte starts therapy today at the same time as Lily, which means by late afternoon the three of us will each be talking to different counselors in separate rooms, with Dawn waiting in the lobby with her book. It’s afternoon … Continue reading →

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Hello and goodbye

Posted on May 16, 2019 by

Everyone wanted to know how my hypnotherapy session went, including me. It took a while to relax because I’d hurried there from work and had to rub my eyes to make the GANTT charts go away. But when the meditation … Continue reading →

Posted in identity, Memoir, writing | Tagged , , , , , | 18 Comments

That last Friday in April

Posted on April 26, 2019 by

Dawn quit her job so she could spend more time with the kids, and that meant her office was up for grabs. Dawn’s office is kind of ideal, with good morning light flanked by book shelves, and a door that … Continue reading →

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The first death

Posted on April 25, 2019 by

The dog’s warm tongue on my cheek, the den by the window where the sun comes in to expose the hair on my carpet, the dust on the lamps, the dirt on my legs from the morning’s hike. Going up … Continue reading →

Posted in death, Memoir, parenting, prose, writing | Tagged , , , , , , | 19 Comments