It’s a pink, purple evening in the shifting cool, pure evening water. The quiet like a monster. The scrubby network of trees and thorns a comfort.
Sitting at the kitchen table in the predawn dark, nebulously cold, mom and dada at a kitchen table. Coffee, tea, reheated pancakes, an at-peace vibe in the air, things transformed, a mismatched future like globs of clay mashed together.
The dog, Monte, heaves in dry vomit, disoriented and lovely as ever, under drugs that keep him moving, sliding. Blind, heavy, thin, lovely, loving.