I am driving home from work in the rain. The traffic is heavy and I am upset. Not at anything in particular, just a strange combination of angry-sad, non-focused malaise. I have a feeling of something wrong, there is something missing. And the rain is coming down and I can’t see and that jackass in
I sit and look out my back window into the yard behind my house. It is large and full of trees; a combination of fir and pine and aspen. On this day, early in the morning, it is cold and fog is moving in. The white/grey translucent mist sneaks its way into the yard. It
I sat for a long time at the bar. I tried to chat with Stephen, it was too busy. I wandered to the buffet table then through the main dining room, my eye caught the front door and I made my way toward it. I felt a tug at my sleeve as a slid past
On my 16th birthday my brother gave me a copy of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road and it changed my life forever. Not really. It would be nice if it did, if it worked that way. Like a movie, all cut and dry. Defined beginning, movement toward clear resolution, satisfying ending. That would be nice.
When I met with the funeral home people they spoke in low tones and stood stooping slightly forward like old English butlers do in movies. I assumed this was meant to give me a sense of ease and comfort. This was not the impression they gave me. What they did give me were two brochures;
I did not cry. I hadn't realized this until I stood over my father's grave, staring down onto his coffin covered with single flowers and a light dusting of snow that had just begun to fall. Not one tear. It was cold. I flipped the collar of my coat and pulled it around my face
