A Dog's Night

It is completely dark in sleepy Pelham, New Hampshire and the January night sky is showing more stars than I have ever seen. I let Leo out and step onto the porch, craning my neck upward. The sharpness of the cold remains in my lungs as I breath in the stillness of this wintery New England night. My interest in the sky overrides my desire to step back into the warmth of the kitchen. Immediately I recognize Orion and his belt, I find the big dipper. I tell myself to look up words like supernova and red giant and find out if we can actually see the Milky Way from here. I point out my discoveries to Leo, who has come back from his tree, when I realize that dogs can't turn their faces skyward and marvel at the infinity above us. How easy it must be to be a dog. I pity him and am jealous all at once.

Clocks

December 2019

All of the clocks at my grandmother's house have stopped at different times. Over the years, hands left unwound, batteries gone unchanged, clocks abandoned in rooms closed off for years and years. It's the smallest act of rebellion, a weak gesture in the impossible fight against time. Almost as if, should we decide not to play along with the clock, the time will cease to pass. But the thick layers of dust betray us. The faded faces and cracked plastic of art deco time pieces show exactly how much has come and gone.