We climb out of the car, gather our bearings. It’s been a long drive. Ross takes the bags. I grab Sid’s leash. He gets up, stretches slowly. He has grown older, old. It wasn’t that I didn’t notice. I have. It’s that I didn’t want to see. I veiled my vision; I kept my attention at half-mast. I was too busy with my phone, my computer, pounding out stupid real-estate copy that never, ever changed. Meanwhile my dog was aging. And my son –
My son –
Easier to close your eyes. Easier to keep trying to pull higher themes out of a laundry list of qualities handed to you by a client, a bloodless task. You’ve climbed the ladder. The view is your reward. Rich shit like that. Sometimes my own writing makes me want to hurl all over myself. That’s not the worst feeling, though. The worst is when you just don’t give a holy good goddamn. When you’re so disconnected. When your life feels like something framed on a wall in front of you.
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