In the den on the bookshelf he keeps a framed set of photos of himself. Starting at 10 o’clock and moving clockwise, he is a grade school student in a striped red turtleneck, the late 1970s. The picture has the… Read More ›
Creative Nonfiction
April
The album is my link to him, it came out the year he died. It’s just called April and it was released on April 1, 2008. I remember buying the CD, standing outside the record store waiting for the bus…. Read More ›
The spring of our discontent
It’s spring again, so I bought a book called Global Catastrophic Risks. It’s not the right book for the season but I’m compelled to read it because it cost so much. It’s thick and scientific with a Bruegel painting on… Read More ›
Letting go of Jon Cook
In 1996 I didn’t know what to do there, I just knew I had to be on the internet. There was a little internet cafe around the corner from my apartment on Broadway, Seattle’s hip, gay neighborhood I’d just moved… Read More ›
Brief candles
Leaving Utah last September was one of the saddest times of my life, saying goodbye to our daughter Lily. That little airport in the middle of nowhere, so desolate. Sitting in the lobby waiting for the airport workers to open… Read More ›
Midwinter break
Literally everyone standing in line is on their phone. It said the wait time was 85 minutes but when we got halfway through they said it would be longer, that’s all they said. And when Charlotte checked the wait time… Read More ›
The signet pinky ring went missing
I had to let go of the ring. The ring was gone. The ring came off when I removed my work gloves, fell to the ground, a garden bed. The ring lay unnoticed for a time on its side. The… Read More ›
Middle-age, Death is at the foot of your bed
You stand for a moment fitting your pack and wonder, is it too late for me to set out? The dream metaphor is this: I’m busy packing, gathering my things at the car. I have the lift gate open and… Read More ›
Cordless
The bright red Mickey Mouse socks my kids gave me before the pandemic were now going pink and faded with holes opening at the heels. These socks, like so many things in my life, held small resonance. They meant something… Read More ›
Through the gap in Shakespeare’s garden
A woodsy scent of burning cedar and spice. The languid winter hours spent by the window with the lull of rain thumbing the gutters and panes. “Through the gap in Shakespeare’s garden,” that’s the phrase I borrowed from the guy… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 