Flashes of Panic

I turned on the porch light, but I probably didn’t need to. The moon lit everything, both brighter and more shadowy than any flashlight, diffused through a thin scrim of cloud. I stashed some stuff in the car, then pulled my skis and poles out; it’s going to be parked somewhere this weekend where I don’t want them showing in the back seat. I debated whether I had the hands for the snowshoes, too, and decided to leave them. (So, keep your eyes open for a little black coupe with snowshoes in the back seat.)

I almost stayed myself. I didn’t have my to-do list with me, couldn’t see a clock to tell me how up-late I was, nor the inbox of email awaiting reply. The only bags full of plan-ahead were the finished ones I stowed in the trunk. The moon was out and I could imagine stars, imagine following single-track paths through the half-lit woods until I fell asleep in the passenger’s seat.

But the cat was watching from the apartment window, and he needed to be saved from his door-mousie. (He’s not to be trusted with string toys. He gets wound up, both figuratively and literally.) The lights were on, music was playing. And I was still wearing my slippers.

This is my compromise.

Now Playing: The cat, with the door mousie