On The Deck

I'm sat at my small glass table out on the deck. It is stained and dusty, shadows of summer evenings past. It is technically summer now but feels like spring still. The late-morning sun is weaving through the maple leaves and warming my joints. I'm squinting against the reflection off the notebook I am journalling in, inky thoughts cutting through the glare.

The dogs are enjoying the warmth. The big one is stretched out in the shade, his thick coat making him too hot in the early summer heat. He is a winter dog no doubt, most at home with snow up to his belly.

The other is stalking a mouse that she saw two days ago that may or may not be hiding under the deck. Ever the optimist. I wonder what she would do if she got a hold of it - sure it would be ugly.

There's a healthy breeze, warm and shushing through the towering silver maple next to the deck. At times it drowns out the faint drone of a retiree's mower two streets over. It gusts and I am in danger of having to chase remnants of my lunch across the floor before they fall through the deck slats, a windfall for Mr. Mouse.

I return to my journal, the white spaces between the words. I have a thousand thoughts in my head, almost none of them making it to the page. I'm still holding back, denying my own thoughts to myself. Why? I chew the end of the brand-new pen I bought specifically for this purpose, for the hoped catharsis of it all, and mull the issue.

Why hold back? Fear of discovery, of being laid bare, embarrassment?

Honesty?

I've spent forty-five years building a mask to hide behind. It fits well, a comfort as much as a crutch as much as an anchor.

I am Mr. Mouse, deep in the cooling shadows, secure from the stalking pup above.

The air stills for a moment and I sense my breath passing in and out.

The little dog relents, collapses panting, sunning her belly.