As I type this I am completely alone in the house. Completely alone. I love my people, but I don't get enough time like this - hours upon beautiful quiet hours in which I can have uninterrupted thoughts.
There is only one thing wrong. Usually when I have the house to myself I'm not actually completely alone. There is usually another little life in the house, curled up in a warm spot somewhere or weaving through my legs, or sitting on my chest as I type with paws wrapped around my neck. Last weekend our beloved cat companion was killed by a car and I don't know exactly what to say about that except that I can't remember anything that so wrecked me like the moment that I tried to pick up her dead body from the road near our house.
I couldn't do it. I howled on my knees by the side of the road equally horrified by the stiffness of her body as I was by the prospect of leaving her there for one more minute. It wasn't rational, she was already gone. There was no life left in her to feel uncomfortable. But that's what shock will do to you, what sudden grief will do to you - gut you of all rational thought and leave you on your knees on the side of a very busy road with your head bent less than a foot away from the yellow line, not caring if it gets lopped off by speeding metal and steel just so long as the dead body of your cat isn't left in the dirt and exhaust fumes one minute longer.
It was eventually managed in a collaborative effort in what was probably minutes but felt like an interminably long time.
The house...the house is much more quiet without her vibrant little presence and I still haven't gotten used to it.
My pick this week is from Daniel Hathcock whose piece resonated with me even though I'm not exactly sure why yet:
Thoughts are naked at 3:00 in the morning. Camping out here at this Little kitchen table with the Ugly blue vinyl striped Wal-mart tablecloth.
I have a massive cup o’ Joe, But I’m getting drunk reading my Kerouac And the mad ones.
It hurts to know you’re Not the person you thought you were. Not a roman candle exploding, But still a spider.
8 legs of confusion, of doubt, Of quiet little mouse-like Timidity choking on half conceived words.
Frailty personified. Fear made flesh.
The words are alcohol and The bottle is full. Always ready for yet another shot.
I'm reading several books at the moment, but I want to leave this prompt open for anything to do with spooks, ghouls, spectres and other haunty things in celebration of
Or All Hallow's Eve, or Dia de los Muertos, or All Soul's Day. Point is, scare the ever-lovin' crap out of me. Ok?