Tuesday, April 26, 2011

The First Thing

The first thing you do is steel yourself. Having it always in the back of your mind, you run errands... run the dog. Take a nap.

Then you find some music. Or a radio station. Or font up some t.v. show you watched just last night on the computer. And you take the packing tape you bought today with money you didn't have and the boxes you got when you thought maybe you would do Ebay.... and you put them together...tape screaming- skreet-chitch, skreet-chitch and you bury your books as you've done so many times before in hope and cardboard.... tossing out so many. Some, needing to be gone. Some, well...

Dog doesn't understand; his world disappearing box by box and he clammers to go out and enjoy this beautiful day.. the sort of which would have had you out on the porch getting the window boxes ready for summer flowers in years past. And you hook him up, and walk him past what has now become... the past, and down the stairs and you wonder... no... You know, that in two months you won't have an outdoor space. What will you do with the table and chairs and boxes and the need for being able to step into the storm when it comes, all dark and clouded and menacing... but understood?

Having returned, you hear a screen door slam. Such an old sound to someone your age, and you know that Reva has gone in, or out. Solace in recognizing the sound. Solace in knowing she's there doing what she does during the day. Sorrow in knowing it's becoming an extinct sound for you. And you turn back to the dog and 'skreet-chitch' and the sound of the water and the knowing of how you got here almost one year ago.

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