Saying Goodbye

My little one, Henry, requires two things from me anytime I leave our home: a hug and a kiss.

Our ceremony is pretty straightforward. I tell him where I am going.  A run. The Y. The produce stand. Albertson's. The coffee shop. My English class. Tutoring.

"Henry, I am going to run to the store.  I will be right back."

"Hug and kiss" Henry will say, dropping his Legos so he can come at me with free hands.  Which he will wrap around my neck as I bend down to meet him. After he's pressed the whole of his little torso into my receiving heart, he'll lift my hair from my shoulders and away from my face and brings his warm little mouth and lips to my cheek. He kisses softly but covers the whole of my cheek, like how my neighbor's horse used to gently mouth an apple from my upturned hand.

Then Henry lets me go. He returns to his Legos and the imaginary fire he and his brother are putting out in the living room.

I can still feel it as I pull away from the driveway.

This Is How He (She) Looked

The first time she saw him it was 1982.  He had tube socks pulled up to his knees, white with three tan stripes near the top.  His Ocean Pacific shorts were made of blue corduroy and were so short it made his legs seem impossibly long.  Her eyes were drawn to the small embroidered OP right above his right thigh.  It was the same size as the horse sewn on his shirt.  All the cool boys were wearing polo shirts with little white horses on the pocket, and Kyle was definitely one of the cool boys.  His blond hair was a little long and so straight.  Sun-kissed was the word that came to mind.  He had that effortless charm of someone athletic and comfortable in their skin.  She had never seen a true SoCal boy before and she was smitten.

She wasn't sure what, exactly, it meant to be his girlfriend.  Except, of course, that everyone else wanted to be it too.  No one explained all the rules to her but she had picked up that she was expected to run away from him at recess and pass notes during class.  The oddest part was that they never really talked.  Most of their conversations were done through Carl, his best friend.  Carl delivered the notes and set up the meetings.

"He'll be by the three swings after lunch" or "meet by the teether-ball after school".  The latest communique summoned her to the drinking fountain.  The note had said Kyle wanted to kiss.  This one really had her flustered.  Even worse, word seemed to have spread.  All the girls were whispering and watching her with wide eyes.  Several had already snuck out of class and gathered around the fountains.  It was her turn now.  She managed to wheedle a hall pass.  That was easy to do.  Mrs. Beale liked her and didn't seem to notice that a good third of her class had a sudden unanimous call of nature.  Nervous, she rounded the corner and saw the crowd that had formed before her, but there he was.  Tube socks, short shorts, covered in embroidered logos and nonchalance.  Before she reached him, Carl stepped forward to greet her.

"Um, hey."  Carl shrugged and shuffled his feet.  "Kyle wants to kiss you."

Titters from the girls.  The boys gave high fives and everyone seemed to take a step close.  They watched her now.

"OK", she said, trying a shrug on for herself and hoping she could pull it off.  She wiped her palms on the culottes her mom had made her and wondered for the hundredth time why her?  She didn't get it.  Her hair was brown and always in braids.  Try as she might, she couldn't get her mom to buy her any Esprit tops or Jordache jeans.  But she could kiss, right?.  Maybe that was enough?

Carl turned and walked back to Kyle.  She followed.

"Um, hey." Carl shrugged again.  "She said ok."

"Cool," Kyle replied and pushed off the wall toward her.  She didn't know where to put her hands or what to do with her mouth but it didn't matter.  Almost before she could think it through it was over.  He just leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers amid the whoops and cheers.  Then he smiled and turned away, swallowed up by the back pats and congrats of others.

She stood there for a moment, dazed.

"Um, so, he'll meet you at the back field for chase at recess," Carl told her as he turned away.  The show was over and everyone scurried back to their classrooms.  Four notes were pressed into her hand as she made it back herself.  It was her first kiss.  They would share four more in front of a mixed crowd before he broke up with her to go out with Cindy.  He would kissed Cindy twice before they broke up too.  But for the rest of her life, long after she had forgotten his name and the feel of his lips, she would remember what he looked like leaning against that wall waiting for her.  Tube socks.  OP shorts.  Sun kissed hair.

Your daddy's pride

He was small for his age with a thin build and jet black hair, slicked back from his face in current fashion. He was so small, in fact, that he was known as Wee in his little town on the shores of Lake Superior in Wisconsin. He had lived in Washburn his whole life and was admired for his gentle spirit, quiet hard-working ways, and integrity. From the time he entered school, everyone knew Wee was straightforward and would have their backs, as long as their backs were on the right side of the law.

At home, things were rough for Wee. His parents had a tumultuous relationship. Wee’s dad was aloof and demoralizing to his wife. He forbid her to go to Catholic Church, any church really, because he thought God and religion were a bunch of crap only stupid and weak people believed in. And to him, Catholics were the stupidest. Throughout their marriage, he stayed out drinking and on more than one occasion, drove honking past the family home with another woman in the car. One time Wee’s mother ran down the street after her husband, yelling at him to get back home.

As for Wee, his father had no use for him. Where others saw Wee’s kindess, his dad only saw uselessness. He seemed angry that Wee existed, although Wee’s two sisters got a somewhat better bargain. He whipped Wee, made him sleep out on the converted, unheated porch all year long, and belittled him. Wee developed a stutter and an almost debilitating anxiety around his father. Throughout his childhood, Wee suffered from a constant need to please his father to no avail. His friends and extended family were his salvation. A kind hearted grandpa and grandma taught him another version of family love and acceptance. It was a miracle Wee grew up to be a gentle father, grandfather and loving spouse for 51 years.

Wee endured criticism and coldness from his father all through adulthood. He and his wife lived across the street from his parents. He continued to help his parents and tried to earn his father’s respect. Did he remain a loyal son out of genuine love for his parents or because of some illusion that his father would wake up one day, suddenly full of pride for his only son? No one knew the answer to this great mystery because Wee never spoke of his reasoning. He just tried and endured, got hurt and disappointed, and tried again.

For his final act of “screw you, son”, Wee’s father arranged to kill himself in a location and at a time when he knew Wee would be the one to find him. He didn’t want to burden his wife with this horrifying discovery, but felt that Wee was up to the task. For the rest of his life, Wee’s last memory of his father would be of cradling his dad in his arms, brain matter and blood soaking into his shirt.

He never heard the words “I love you, I’m proud of you, I think you are a wonderful man” from his father.

We made sure he heard it from us.

The Idea Inside the Morning

The idea inside the morning salutation was harder to get at than the idea behind it.  Patricia was the first to show us a sun salutation.  Fresh from a summer of guiding rich kids in the Teton Wilderness, Frank had invited Patrica joined us on our last official climb of the summer: Mt. Baker, the South Ridge. I think they both wanted to show each other their place in the wilderness.

We stumbled from our tents early the morning after our climb zipped into fleece jackets in various shades of eggplant, chartreuse, and teal blue, our long underwear peeking out of khaki shorts. Patricia had tied her mink hair back in two piggies and pulled a red bandanna flat between her hairline and forehead. She must have perfected that look in Wyoming.

Waiting for the water to boil on our the singular propane burners, we gazed at the lake beyond us. I wasn't bored. But I wasn't contemplative, either. Nor was I exactly blissfully serene like I am after the first swallows of coffee from my aluminum mug. I wasn't satiated but I wasn't starving. I think I was just waiting. The mountain was behind me, now.

Patricia caught me in this moment. In the voice that she must have used all summer, she, the outsider, really, called us to the shore so she could show us how to run through a sun salutation. I followed.  So did the rest of us.

Arms up. Stretch. Stretch Stretch. Up. Bring hands together in a steeple. Gaze up.  Fold down. Flatten out the spine. Press chest into knees in a singular bow. Flatten spine. Reach out with your arms. Press away.  Again.

Arms up. Stretch. Stretch Stretch. Up. Bring hands together in a steeple. Gaze up.  Fold down. Flatten out the spine. Press chest into knees in a singular bow. Flatten spine. Reach out with your arms. Press away.  Again.

Arms up. Stretch. Stretch Stretch. Up. Bring hands together in a steeple. Gaze up.  Fold down. Flatten out the spine. Press chest into knees in a singular bow. Flatten spine. Reach out with your arms. Press away.  Again.

Frank was beginning to love Patricia. He was straining to be fluid and meditative like she commanded to us on that Sunday morning on the lake shore. I remember clamping my legs together to keep from leaking a little into my long underwear from laughing at his heroic efforts to embrace the idea behind the sun salutation. His stout body so used to attacking things with a hearty heave-ho, straining to respond in kind to the idea of emptying, opening, embracing. In a sisterly slash climbing partner way, I loved watching him first love Patricia.

Frank and Patricia have been married forever now. I lost them almost ten years ago, when they didn't chose me. I always thought witnessing their couples sun salutation as a mountain courtship dance was the story. But I don't think it is. Because, remember, Patricia introduced the greeting to all of us.

It was the idea inside the Morning Salutation.

It Was Written In the Margin

"Excellent cake," was scrawled in the margin.  Written in pencil and beautiful cursive, it caught my eye as I flipped through the dusty old cookbook.  A few pages over I found, "freezes beautifully" faithfully noted next to a tuna casserole recipe.  The pages were old and yellowed and the binding barely held the cookbook together.  Adding to its stain were the numerous newspaper clippings and recipe cards typed with a manual typewriter that kept dropping its Ts.  I was smitten.

I hurried up to the counter and passed over my treasure.  The store owner raised an eyebrow when he glanced down at the tattered cookbook.

"Do you cook?" he asked as he rang up the total.

"No, not really," was my reply.

He peered at me over the tops of his bi-focals, eyebrow raised higher.  I smiled self-consciously and handed over my money.  I declined the plastic bag he offered, preferring to feel the worn canvas cover clasped in my hands.  Of course, it was still raining so I tucked my new found treasure under the flap of my jacket and made a dash for the car.  Three hours of antiquing and all I had to show for it was this dog eared book.   I was giddy.  With the rain pelting my car, I sat and turned the book over in my hands.  The cover was tattered and splattered and most of the gold lettering had worn away but you could still make out the title: "The New Boston Cookbook".

Perhaps it was the librarian in me but I always sought out the copyright page of books.  I loved seeing when and where they were printed, how many printings were done and often unearthed little hidden nuggets on the early pages of books overlooked by most readers.  This was a second edition printed in 1925.  Tucked right behind the first page I found a recipe card dated 1973.  Same handwriting as the margin notes I had spied earlier.  I sat back and stared out the windshield.  Math was never my strong suit but I was pretty confident in thinking that this cookbook covered a span of 50 years worth of clippings and jottings and memories.  Rifling through it, I quickly saw I was right.  1949.  1932.  1968.  The dates danced throughout the margins of the book all written in the same beautiful penmanship.  Toward the end, a larger piece of paper slipped out, carefully folded and creased.  I opened it gingerly.  This wasn't a clipping for hollandaise sauce or braising tips.  In fact, it had nothing to do with food at all.  It was a letter.  A letter written over thirty years ago that would send me down a rabbit hole and into a whole new world that I never even suspected existed before.

It was Tuesday, April 25.  The day it all began.

Black Winged Moth

The black winged moth with her feathery antennae
Quivers and settles on the petals of a rose
Her barrel shaped body dressed in gold and royal blue
Dressed for a night on the town, I suppose

She stretches her long narrow wings in the sun
Soaking up the vibrancy of a spring day
She is quiet, content, wanting for nothing
How I wish I could have her peace today

Just the moth and me listening to the trickling stream
As breezes ruffle the large fir trees
Her freedom, her spirit, I envy it so
To live in beauty, to do as she please

A branch snaps and I start, alerting the moth
She flits off without saying goodbye
I am left alone and feeling a little used
As I watch her laughingly climb towards the sky

That Sunday afternoon

It is Sunday afternoon and the amount of distance I have to cover in order to get home and get myself in the position to teach school tomorrow is freaking me out a bit.  I am actually pissed.  I am pissed for many reasons.  To begin with, I am too far away from home.  Literally.  I have just spent the last oh, what? fourteen hours climbing San Miguel Peak, one of the more remote 14eers on the tic list.  We still have to break camp, ski out, load the Land Cruiser, and drive home four hours across southwest Colorado, grabbing dinner somewhere between Buena Vista and Alamosa. NOTHING is going to be open. Gareth is going to stay awake by rolling down the windows as we roll home, furiously, into the indigo darkness.

The spring snow has gone to crap this late in the afternoon, it's melted and frozen again because it took us forever to bag this one. I swear to God it was like a seven mile ski in up a snow covered Forest Service trail just to get to our camp yesterday evening. I already don't remember anything about the climb or the summit.  I think we had some good runs. Whoo-hoo.  But I don't give a shit about that now because on the descent, Annabelle caught whiff of a deer and took off after her across a gully where, right smack in the middle was a marmot carcass. Ddespite our furious protests ringing off the jagged cliffs, she stuck her head in the belly and went to town on the freshly killed animal. I thought Gareth was going to loose his mind or at least blow a vein in his right temple. When she finally made her way back to us, I slipped on the ridge. I fall, I swear 100 feet, my ski poles another 300 feet.  I am not scared, although I should be. No, I am pissed.  Pissed at how hot I am, skeins of sweat are running underneath my polypro shirt, my long underwear is sticking to my ski pants, my eyes are red and burning from dehydration.  All I want to do is take out my contacts, peel out of my soggy bra and put on cotton.  But the saline solution and my change of town clothes are in the Land Crusier about seven miles down river at the trail head.  So now I have to slide down another 300 feet to slog back up again. We're not even close to camp yet.

I am sick of Chris and Gareth and the three stupid dogs and this whole weekend.  I am hungry, thirsty, hot, uncomfortable. I am also pissed at everyone at Osprey Packs and feeling a little righteous about it.  So I am going to say it.  The pack I am testing for Mike sucks. I should be paid to wear it. They cannot bring this to the trade show in a few months.  It needs to go in the garbage. I need to be compensated.  I spit that at them when we finally reached the car, well into early evening and about five full body spills into snow banks.  I threw it off, into a puddle of slushy snow and dirt.

Gareth took a picture of me during this tantrum. Of the few pictures he took of me our ten years together, he never took very good pictures of me. Anyhow, I found it the other day, tucked into of my journals. It isn't a good picture. I am having a tantrum. But in some ways I think that Sunday afternoon sort of changed everything.

Write About What Matters

How do you teach your daughter to love herself?  Out of every lesson I impart to her, this is the one that matters most.  Not only to be yourself but to like who that is.  To speak your mind, dress to your own inner delight, to let the harsh words and judgments of others slide of your back.  So easy to say but so hard to do.

I watch her, out of the corner of my eye.  It's a strange little triangle we make.  I, slyly watching her.  She, slyly watching The Others.  Those girls who know the secret.  Who are themselves and have that mesmerizing glow of self-worth.  She wants the same shoes as The Others.  She wants the same tags on her cloths.  As if she believes that if she can copy the outside, the inside will change too.  Her favorite color has changed from blue (too boy) to pink.  Anything that sets her apart is hidden; toys tucked away when They come to play.  Was I like this? Did I try and hide myself behind a bland mask too?  I don't think so.  I remember being the fearless leader.  The one with the crazy idea or the newest trend.  I never considered following any one other than myself and it brought me friends and acceptance and respect.  But how did I know to do this?  Why doesn't she?  Nobody respects the kid who tags along copying.  I know what happens to that girl and it isn't pretty.  Always on the outer ring, trying so hard to get "in", teased and snickered at.   If They see your desire, They have a hold over you.

I have no memory of this.  I just never cared.  I remember being the one choosing.  And I always picked the individual, not the loner cloner.  My friends where the wild girls.  We didn't care about make-up and boys.  We were the drama queens, the class leaders, the ones who sat in the front row and glowed.  We were comfortable in our own skin and that gave us an invincibility.  No one bothered to harass us because the words just flowed off our backs.

I wish I knew how I got there.  I wish I knew that secret so I could whisper it in her ear and have her understand the power that loving yourself gives you.  Super strength, beauty, charisma, courage, it all comes from the same deep well of self-love.  I truly believe we all have that well buried deep inside us.  For some, the well is deep and full, the water lapping right at the top ready to be drunk.  But for my daughter, I fear her well is buried deep and I cannot show her the way.  All I can do is tell her that it is there and watch, silently and she tries to uncover it for herself.

When the stars align.....

Looking out the window on a clear, calm night, Carrie was exhausted yet spellbound by the beauty of the dark sky. It was one of those magical nights where she could hear the quiet rustling of trees, where sound seemed to travel three times as far as usual. The world was at peace, a standstill.

She wondered how this could be, as her life had been turned upside down. First, in a horribly cruel way, but later in a beautiful twist. After years of trying to have a baby, she and Drew had finally made it happen. It took a series of painful years-- the wondering why she couldn't get pregnant, wondering why this was happening to her. Her marriage went to the brink of divorce and back. Famly and friends rallied at first and then grew disinterested as time dragged on and treatments grew tiresome.

Finally, one day, she and Drew decided to throw in the towel. Mother Nature, or God, had won. They were beaten down by their bodies' refusals to procreate and they were done. Done with charting temps, ovulation kits, clomid, IVF. She and Drew would be okay on their own, a family of two.

Life went on....and it was fine. She grieved what wasn't meant to be and tried to reframe her life as wife and professional. Then, two years ago, she listened to a radio program on her way to work. The show was about foster care. As Carrie heard the inspiring and harrowing stories, she had to pull over. It took her breath away. To be a mother to such a fragile creature; to have such a bond while saving a child from chaos and abandonment was all she child think about.

She called Drew as soon as she got to the office. He gave the standard "let's talk about this at home", which they did for two long months. He finally came around. She knew he would.

They embarked on a long journey of social work home visits, parent trainings and waiting. Four weeks ago, they got a call. An 18 month old girl needed placement. Carrie and Drew jumped at the chance to have her and welcomed her into their home.

The tranisition was rough. Sasha, the child, was traumatized from abuse and domestic violence. She didn't trust Carrie and Drew and threw multiple hideous tantrums each day. But, they didn't give up. They would not let Sasha down like so many other adults in her life had.

Sasha woke up screaming this evening, as she had many nights before. But this time, for the first time, she let Carrie comfort her. As Carrie gently held Sasha, murmuring comforting words that mothers the world over instictively know, Sasha relaxed into a cuddle. The cuddle gave way to sleep and soon Sasha was breathing heavily, poured against Carrie. A warm bundle in her arms.

Carrie sighed and enjoyed the moment's peace. Who knew how long it would last? But for now, she had it all.

"Darkness comes at 3 in the afternoon"

It's not exactly dark at 3:00 in the afternoon, but its starting.  I watch it seep in each afternoon from the window of the 32nd floor of the Washington Mutual building. Within an hour, I will be able to see my entire reflection peering back at me as I finish the last of my client calls to Dutch Harbor, Prince William Sound, Kodiak. Sometimes I put on lip gloss. I cannot believe how often I run my hand through my hair, pushing back bangs that I grew out years ago. The habit never broken.

As the late November, early December afternoons progress, I scan the lighted windows from the building across 3rd Avenue.  Sometimes I will see a woman walking past a window, but the offices, mainly, look empty.  I wonder who is in there.  What they do. Do they see me?  What would they think I was doing?

City workers have hung Christmas--I think we're supposed to say holiday--lights in the bare trees lining 3rd.  It's beautiful when I am up here. Seattle's towers are twinkling. Streetlights and headlights punch little circles of yellowish orange into pockets of blackness. But I am waiting for five o'clock so I can write out my time sheet, shut the light to my office that is much too big and empty for what I am doing. I will wave good night to Sandra at the front desk as the elevator doors seal shut with a soft little whoosh. Once I've pushed through the brass and glass revolving doors, I will walk north three blocks and catch the 5:17 home.

On the bus, if I get a window seat, I will look up from my book every now and then and look out the window.  I will see myself in the reflection. I am still there.

I get off at Ken's. It's a market on Greenwood, four blocks from my house. I will stop there and buy a steak and some veggies to stir fry for dinner.  Gareth and I might come back up to Greenwood later on tonight and have a beer at the 75th Street Ale House. We've been trying for a year now to get our regular server, Cat Woman, to smile at us, act as if she knows us. I might not be up for it tonight.  I don't know, Gareth can be pretty persuasive.

Right now I am walking home. I cannot see myself in this winter darkness.  But I know am am still here.



    

You're On A Two-Lane Highway

Montana was fabulous.  Big sky, rolling hills, cows wandering across the two lane highway.  Well, maybe not so much the cows.  The little car didn't come with air so the windows were down to give some much needed relief from the sun.  My right arm, propped on the open window, glowed in its rays.  I realized it was quickly turning from farmer tan to flamingo pink but it felt so good I just couldn't bring it back into the shade.

Truth be told, I had no idea where I was going and that felt wonderful.  After months of studying and listening and assessing,  I needed some heedless wandering to open up my horizons again.  I needed open windows, snarled hair, and one bright pink arm.  I was going with my boyfriend to visit his cousins who lived somewhere in Montana.  I really couldn't tell you if we were heading to Missoula or Billings.  I was merely along for the ride.  The radio reception had ended about the time we pulled over at the Jerky Shack for a much needed bathroom break and a splurge on buffalo jerky.  It tasted awful so we decided to give it to the dog who was, quite possibly, having as much fun with the open window as I was.  Head out, tongue lolling, trying to catch every scent that tickled his nose, Zambi was in dog heaven.  I had only two complaints.  First, for reasons I could not explain, Zambi had developed a fanatical hatred of cows.  Being a city dog, I don't think he had ever seen one before this trip.  But the first time we zipped around a bend in the highway only to slam on the breaks to miss the herd of slow moving bovine, he started barking like his life depended on it.  After that, every time the wind delivered a whiff of sour cow dung, he would start growling and the ruff of his neck would rise.

But even worse than the barking?  The sneezes.  Huffing all that Montana air seemed to overload Zam's nose and after a while he'd let out a horrific sneeze.  It would rock his head head back and the whipping wind would blow dog snot all over the side of my cheek and pepper my tangled hair.  But the thought of rolling up the window and depriving us of the sun and the smells and the zip of the wind never crossed on my.

"Good boy Zam," I muttered as we passed a herd of placid cows who watched us with a disinterested gaze.  Zac crested a hill and we turned..... south? West?  I smiled and closed my eyes, feeling the sun fall onto my lap, content to let myself be taken away down this two-lane road.

Black ice

"It's taunting me. Having the last laugh," Elizabeth thought bitterly. She pumped her brakes on the slick road, her forehead creased with anxiety. "This God forsaken place can't let me go without kicking me when I'm down."


As she clenched the steering wheel with gloved hands, Liz had a fleeting thought about life's ironies. Jack had persuaded her to try life in Washington State with his dressed up stories of crisp air, rugged hills and soaring fir trees. Too bad he wasn't as descriptive when it came to day to day realities. No, on that topic he had been strangely quiet. She only learned the truth by witnessing his fall from bravado, by watching his puffed out chest become hunched and sunken with despair.


Yes, the first year had been glorious. There's no denying that. New adventures, new aquiantances. They made Liz almost forget where they had come from, as if that was possible. But after that first year, bad things started creeping back into their lives. Little by little she noticed them. He would be gone for hours, he was jittery and he snapped at her. He lost his job. Friends grew distant.


"How could it be happening again?" she thought as she slowed for a sharp curve in the road. "I saw it coming. I did. But I just couldn't stop it. Not this time"


No, she couldn't stop her smooth talking, handsome lover. He is who he is. Nothing will change him. A swindler. A liar spinning webs of deceipt, catching the innocent by surprise. He was incredibly smart, but only used his intelligence for unseemly gains. There was no altruistic bone in his body. But, he could tell a great story. And, god, could he make a woman feel special. Like she could do anything as long as she was with him. Life was a great adventure with Jack.......right up until it fell apart.


"And it always falls apart," Liz thought as her body sagged in defeat. Her life was broken and she had no where to go. Why she had packed up the few things she wished to keep and had driven off at 4:00 in the morning she couldn't say. It was just a need. No, an imaginary force pushing her out of this town. She had to leave now, despite the freezing fog and black ice coating the roads.


Black ice, disguised as innocent wet pavement, mollifying her into a sense of security, until it was too late. Suddenly, the ice played an unforgiveable trick on her and spun her out of control. It shattered her and her life in one sinister moment.


"Just like Jack," she thought absurdly as her head hit the windshield.

"Moving into the New House"

Moving in to the new house, Jena was determined not to fill it with crap. All summer long she had been dropping off loads to the Goodwill. Rickety chairs, an old computer desk, an Epson printer, t-shirts, shoes that hurt her bunion but that she bought anyway for a summer wedding and now the newlyweds were already heading for divorce. 

She unloaded reams of papers, boxes of them, actually.  College textbooks, spiral binders, 3-ring binders.  Those she dumped in the recycling.  She rationed how much she would bring to the curbside each week.  Because Waste Management actually charged her for dumping too much in the bin the month before and it was mistakes like that that drove her crazy.  Having to pay for everything. In every way.

When she considered what furniture was coming with her to that new house, at she tried to stick to her campaign to buy or bring only those pieces that stored stuff, not stuff itself.  She didn't need any more nick knacks; her sentimentality was weighing her down.  She was running out of places to put things so they ended up spilling on to her kitchen counter, cluttering her bookshelves, falling off her vanity into the sink with an annoying clunk each time she reached for her saline solution.  How many bottles of Body Shop body spray did she need?  So what if it was a gift from her sister three birthdays ago. Her sister wouldn't care, my God, she wouldn't even know that Jena was still dutifully pumping the overly sticky sweet perfume onto her wrists, backs of her knees, between her breasts each morning primarily just to, eventually, finish the bottle so she could throw it away without feeling guilty about not finishing it to the last drop.  Besides, it was too tacky to give a half empty bottle of perfume to the Goodwill.  If only she could just let it go.

Moving in to the new house, she is going to let it go.  She already has.  She let go of her whole marriage, actually.  Her new house was actually a garage apartment adjacent to a double wide right off of Highway 145. It was a ridiculous $600 a month to rent, and the husband she was leaving drove by at least twice a day on his way to work.  She could feel his anger in the roar of their Landcrusiser's engine as it passed her window each morning. She tried to park her car behind the cropping of juniper bushes, because there was no garage, only a burn barrel and the fence was only barbed wire.  She felt so exposed in her new house, but not cluttered. 

If only he had let her clean throw out some stuff.  Who knows.  She actually wrote it down on their first and only marriage counseling session.  She was supposed to write down a list of things that she wanted to change.  Later, years later, after this crisis has passed, she found the list.  It broke her heart when she read some of the things she was asking for.  One of the first things she had written was, let me throw away the old bills and mail that has piled up on our kitchen counter.  You do not need to keep itemized phone bills. She knows that.  Instinctively. And God forbid, not for three years.  But he insisted.  And because she kinda likened him, a bit, to God, or at least someone awfully smart, and powerful, she didn't know how to protest.  And the piles grew.  Until, well,

2nd Post

Labelling this one just to check to see if it works. -Jen

My First Post

Just signing up and logging in. I think I'm good to go. Jen.

My First Post

Awesome!