Home Alone

I sit and read in the kitchen—the warmest room in the house. My dog’s jowls sink into the floor, his eyes heavy and red-rimmed. It’s late. The microwave numbers blink their pixels at me, 2:34 am. It’s quiet, except for the occasional bone cracks of this old house’s frame. The soft yellow light is beginning to wear on my eyes, and I think of closing them and slipping into a dreamful state. So I gather my things, pat my dog on the head, and make my way to my bed, off to the realm of the unreal and the uncontrolled.