I’m feeling petulant in this week of disappointments, way too old to pout and sophisticated enough to know passive aggression when I display it, the urge to subtly pollute the waters, to leave everyone with a bad taste in their mouths.
Late cancellations in a full schedule. Those who take the easy out. The not-listeners and eager beavers. The ones whose motives are unclear even to themselves.
But here I am, sharpening the old pencil (readying the shiv?), a reliable carpenter in an unreliable world. Sure, I’ve slipped out the door. I’ve not returned the call. I have let the better part of me say yes and the worst part of me decide not to go at the last minute. And I have a job that prides itself on reliability and airing things out.
Last night, I dreamed one of our greyhounds got away from me. We were walking along a California coastline cliff, some dream version of Point Reyes. The path was barely big enough for one person. Lorca was on lead, Hugo was not. His first disappearance was down to the water in a pack of other dogs. He frolicked. I called. He eventually returned.
The second time was my fault. The weather went from sunshine to snow. I sought higher ground, a wider path up the hill. Hugo did not come. Hugo! Hugo! Hugo! I could not see him. The hillside steepened. Children created slick paths with their sleds, icy slopes to the lower path. Hugo! Hugo! Hugo! Lorca and I took a step along the hillside and the snow beneath us began to slip. I woke up to that sensation of falling, Hugo’s name still in my throat.
Sometimes, the responsibility of it destroys me.
From the prompt Lying in the wait