Skip to content
15 January 2007 / April


I walked outside, tastefully clad in gray plaid pajama pants and an orange wool coat. It was drizzling, chilly but unseasonably warm as it has been all winter. The ice coating that last night graced the leaves and the mailbox and the porch steps had become a slick sheen of water.

There was no mail. I suppose there never is mail on MLK Day, never was supposed to be mail, but one of the effects a long weekend has on me is that I never really know whether I ought to check the mail, or even whether I’ve already checked it that day.

Another effect is that I go outside in pajamas and don’t blink an eye.

I walked back to the house, talking to myself. I don’t recall what I was saying– probably everything I’ve written here thus far.

Then something made me look up to my right, and there was a deer. Not a herd, just a single deer, standing there still as a statue, as deer are apt to do, and staring directly at me. It wasn’t more than a couple meters away.

We stood, staring placidly at each other for a while. I turned away first, walked a few more steps, looked back. It was still staring.

I stepped back into an empty house and wiped the rain from my glasses.


Yeah, I hear you, my nonexistent audience. “Some nerve this girl’s got, leaving us high and dry for months and coming back as though nothing happened. What have you got to say for yourself, eh?”

My response is to thumb my nose at you.

I will probably not write here regularly. I just got this urge to today. Teenagers are notoriously mercurial creatures, so you never know when you might see me next…


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: