Category: Writing

A blood-red sun burns in the haze that colors the mountains blue. This is the long drive home in the summer evening light. I arrive just after dark. The house is empty in all the spots the dog would occupy. The house is empty in all the spots the dog would occupy.

Midday sun and sea breeze. Gulls stalk and squawk and soar away. In a low-slung chair I squint at the horizon, bulldoze piles of sand with my feet. Everything is muffled by waves – the plane overhead, the children screaming in play, the sirens in the distance. The shells are mostly broken here.

The mix of stale cigarette smoke and mid-level cigars smells like desperation and bravado. One more hand, one more pull of the slot arm. Everyone here is one hand away from winning big. The lights dazzle. There’s club music in the background punctuated by bells and electronic chimes. Welcome to Atlantic City

The blue wristband indicates I’m part of a club – a select group of people crazy enough to sit in the heat listening to blues music. Bucks County Blues Festival. We drank the beers. We sat in the sun. We reapplied the lotion.  Eventually, the rain and lightning sent everyone home. Us too.

By all appearances, it’s a normal day. The sun shines bright. Clouds drift from left to right. We take the longer walk around the neighborhood – the one reserved for weekends and extra sniffing. We linger at the good spots. Extra treats and hugs too. Only one of us knows this is goodbye.

The toaster oven ticks. I’m staring. I’m thinking about when I come home from being away for a few days. I can see myself opening the door, bending down, anticipating the dog – a reflex. His bed is gone. The house is quiet. Snapping out, I remember I’m supposed to be pouring coffee.

The switch is turned off. No thoughts. Really? I walk a long and silent hallway looking for my thinking. It’s blank. All the doors are shut. It’s not dark, not light. Behind some of the doors, I suspect thoughts tinker and cobble, mechanisms grind and spin – silently and unseen. I don’t pry.

The morning light is peaches and cream. The view from my table only changes if I choose to see the change. Blades of grass nibbled down by rabbits. A shrub grows an inch or two. The people in the house next door come and go, come and. Minutes have passed. Days too.

I don’t want to mention the robin’s song – but there it is like the first lullaby of the night. The darkening sky has that painter’s shade of blue again, a dusty version of cerulean. I close my eyes. I see pink and green silhouettes of famous people decked out in Warhol brights.

It’s late in the day. The sunlight after the rain glints off everything shimmery wet. It’s the yellow sparkle of white wine, the dew drop rolling down green grapes, the condensation on the tilted glass. That’s the freshness of this light. The slow slip of a summer day cooling into pale evening.    

A blue wasp emerges from a hole on the underside of a chair. She drops a neon green bug carcass and crawls back in. A blue wasp emerges from a hole on the underside of a chair. She drops a neon green bug carcass and crawls back in. Seven carcasses so far.

Six finches hop and flit on the back deck. They crawl through lattice holes in the patio table and chairs. They chase a moth, chase a wasp. Six finches preen and rest and move about. They find the shade, they find the sun. They eventually fly away.  No finches on the deck.