Quiet in the House

There's an orange football lying unattended on the kitchen floor.

There's an empty spot on the couch where he usually sits.

It's quiet in the house, no clicking of tags or barking at passers by.

He's gone to doggie daycare, where he'll be while we're gone.

1:02:07 PM   permalink: []   feedback:   comments: []  

His Own Stuff

There's a light on in the house next door. It's shining in thru the window making it seem like it's day, which it's not. It's too early in the morning -- too early to be awake like this. And he was so tired last night.

But his raincoat woke him up, that blue and black nylon thing with the zipper up the front and the breathable flap in the back. It was the raincoat he'd always wanted, and now it's nowhere to be found: the day before they leave for the mountains.

So he lies there in the darkness with the light of the house next door streaming in thru the bathroom window, and he runs thru the places he's been, wondering if he left it in Houston or left it in Virginia.

How crazy is that, that he's lying there worrying about a lost coat, of all the problems perhaps the easiest to solve?

We'll get another one when we get home, she says to him, seeking to reassure him, that they might sleep.

But that's part of the problem, part of what woke him up. They'll get another one, and the problem will go away. Buy a coat, lose a coat, buy another, lose another, run down to the superstore and let your troubles run down the drain.

Why couldn't he just keep track of his own stuff, instead?

3:33:58 AM   permalink: []   feedback:   comments: []