I lost my place

I was reading at bedtime and I put my book aside so I could look at the stars over Mount Hallowell. I lost my place. For the life of me I couldn’t find where I’d left off. So I closed the book and continued looking at stars — Cassiopeia, Orion, the long ladle of Ursa Major over the printshop, and Jupiter. I lost my place in a book. Lost my place in the novel I’m writing, taken off its trajectory by doubts, the sense of my time being up. But last night, before I put my book aside, we went to Egmont for supper. It was cold and we chose a table right by the fireplace. I had a glass of Pinot Gris and steelhead tacos. John had porkbelly tacos and a bowl of seafood chowder. The food was delicious. At another table two people were talking. They were going out to fish for squid when they’d finished their pints and they were taking gravy down to their boat for their dog. I love my dog, said the guy in the black Stanfield shirt, his face soft. When the chef came out to talk to them, they said they could get him crab, black cod. The servers were stringing garlands on a small tree by the window. Across the inlet, a few lights. A boat came to the dock, dropped something off, then left again, heading into the darkness. This is the novel I’m writing, though my time might be up.

On the way home, we had to stop for elk. They were milling around on the winding road, 5 of them, and even though the windows were closed, I could smell them. Stars above the mountain, Jupiter with its rings, the black lake on our right, our own fire waiting. I lost my place, put my book aside.