-
me: does nederland have a dog park?
mom: nederland is a dog park.
-
-
I wake up.
-
Sunlight streaming through the window. Mattress on the floor, mug of tea next to me, chill like the morning, half-full like my life. Stand up, walk past Norah huffing in her dog-dream, stretched out on her back, paws twitching, chasing- what? I'll never know.
-
Walk into the bathroom, bright shower curtain, soap that smells like cranberries and coconut, sleep scent in my skin. Comb my short short hair with my fingers, feel Norah's downy cheek press against my leg, hear her dog-yawn. We race down the stairs. She wins.
-
Black tea with milk, singing teapot with flowers, hot oatmeal with honey. Walk barefoot across the floor, no furniture except camp chairs, duffel bags overflowing. Open the door to the sunlight, makeshift prayer flags from bandannas, compost box with gnats lazily circling in new sun. Norah streams out beside me, takes all the stairs down the porch at once, runs full tilt across the yard in this primal-genuine expression of joy, and all I can do is pray.
-
Thank you for drawing me here. Thank you for the people in my life who love me, who support me. Thank you for tea, for the curl of muscle in her back legs, for the way I feel my spirit stretching. Thank you for dirt streets and the brightly painted houses that flank them, thank you for the new-person-in-town discount at the coffeehouse down the street.
-
I finish my tea, open the gate, and Norah leaps out into the light streaming in. I place my empty mug on the porch railing. My cup overflows.
I wake up.
-
Sunlight streaming through the window. Mattress on the floor, mug of tea next to me, chill like the morning, half-full like my life. Stand up, walk past Norah huffing in her dog-dream, stretched out on her back, paws twitching, chasing- what? I'll never know.
-
Walk into the bathroom, bright shower curtain, soap that smells like cranberries and coconut, sleep scent in my skin. Comb my short short hair with my fingers, feel Norah's downy cheek press against my leg, hear her dog-yawn. We race down the stairs. She wins.
-
Black tea with milk, singing teapot with flowers, hot oatmeal with honey. Walk barefoot across the floor, no furniture except camp chairs, duffel bags overflowing. Open the door to the sunlight, makeshift prayer flags from bandannas, compost box with gnats lazily circling in new sun. Norah streams out beside me, takes all the stairs down the porch at once, runs full tilt across the yard in this primal-genuine expression of joy, and all I can do is pray.
-
Thank you for drawing me here. Thank you for the people in my life who love me, who support me. Thank you for tea, for the curl of muscle in her back legs, for the way I feel my spirit stretching. Thank you for dirt streets and the brightly painted houses that flank them, thank you for the new-person-in-town discount at the coffeehouse down the street.
-
I finish my tea, open the gate, and Norah leaps out into the light streaming in. I place my empty mug on the porch railing. My cup overflows.
