disappearing

I want to be so well-liked or unnoticeable that I could travel the country by couches. If I could cook like a five star chef I don't think anyone would mind me for a few days, if I sang heartfelt lyrics and played harmonica and left quietly in the night leaving nothing behind.

photograph in a history book

When the seasons start to change is when I feel the most nostalgic. The first day the air is crisp and cold and I notice the changing leaves beckoning on autumn, the call of summer-green leaves filtering the cloudy sky and the sound of cicadas. Those days where the the slow turning of seasons becomes as apparent as the passing of a minute are the ones that dig up thoughts and feelings that slept far under the surface of consciousness.

I play old songs through my headphones and drift out the window of the 13th story. The louder the music, the more real it is. The horns soar in my ears, a chorus of voices and times long past, a familiar and comfortable feeling tinged with longing rings through me. I'm never more aware of time nor more unphased by its passing. The lyrics are a eulogy, I'm dreaming wide awake in color of late night joy rides and hours passed sitting outside a coffee shop talking and whiling away the time, counting in the minutes in cigarettes and waiting for something to happen.

The day is nearly over, the sun sinking away. When I drive home I'll sing in the car.

making peace

He didn't have it in him to make it through another Texas summer. Fifteen years outside, weathering the seasons, running and sleeping, finding ways to escape the confines of the wrought iron fence, had finally taken their toll. Sounds had faded away from him in those last months, becoming distant in his ears and soon diminishing to nothing. For a dog, it seems so crippling - I wonder how he felt with the color drained out of his world, if he could even know or understand or remember hearing at all.

We bought him at the Forney chili cookoff when I was in third grade. My memories of walking around there with my friend Beverly, who had a long blond braid, and my family are indistinct at best. Clearly, though, I remember picking out a puppy at the local SPCA's table, a fiesty little brown mutt with liquid eyes. He and I grew up together. When I was young, I spent days outside playing with him, adventuring around the block, exploring the creek nearby. As I got older, I'd let him inside after the rest of the family was asleep and give him table scraps and let him curl up at my feet while I lost myself in games or the internet or acid. I wonder what he thought when I went away to college. I think he missed me.

Last week, he curled up in the most remote part of the yard he could. He must have been tired that day. Like most animals, he seemed to know it was coming - I wonder if he thought about his life and what he would remember if he could. He closed his eyes, breathed in one last breath and let it out in a long sigh.

My dad found him still and peaceful the next day. He drove what remained out to the farm and buried him under a tall pecan tree on a hill.