Sitting crisscross on the floor – a morning ritual. Leaned half-heartedly into the giant recliner behind me. Chocolate mocha – extra wide, covered in shades of ocean blue, swimming with dolphins. A remnant of a time long gone. The comfort of ‘bunnies’ still present but a bit worn. A sense of comfort as I close my eyes, traversing the memories a touch affords me. To my left – my spy journal, leather-bound perfection teasing my need for order. The outside deceiving the secrets within. Disorganized chaos. A gift of imperfection. A reminder, no a lesson, to ‘let it go.’
A miniature composition notebook with a note atop, ‘all I am (want to be)/all I (want to) do.’ A thought, an idea, a moment of clarity maybe. My light blue Bic sitting nearby; one of 40, a rainbow of choices of medium point precision – my favorites! I can hear the creaking of the shower as my husband starts his morning. The movement of water through the pipes in the wall behind me. The thud of the soap, for the one-millionth time. Twenty-five years of the soap hitting the shower floor. A reminder of the things that make me laugh.
Before me, beneath me, and all around beige carpeting, though I believe it was off-white eight years ago. My options were white and off-white, a lose-lose guarantee of carpet replacement far sooner than necessary. This used to be the cleanest room of the house, a sanctuary of dreamy toe traveling squishiness. A hidden treasure. It still has its charms, but it’s seen some things. A series of humans, dragging their belongings in and out while dropping their drama about.
A sea of desert sand and muddy dinge staring back at me. I look up to see my husband leaning into the room, his hand placed carefully on the doorknob. It’s funny, he’s very careful not to startle me – something I’ve never considered before this moment. He’s ‘running to Wal-Mart.’ He needs to ‘get things ready for tomorrow.’ Sunday is ‘fishing day,’ or at least it is this week. The truth is, ‘fishing day’ falls on good weather and proper cash flow day. This is not an inexpensive hobby, but one that affords him a moment’s peace, a well-deserved moment. ‘Do you need anything while I’m out?’
I ponder the question and how I am feeling – ‘can you pick me up one bunch of bananas? The ones I like.’ I start debating what else I may want, I consider how I feel and the thought of pudding entices my taste buds. An environment inundated by germs and bacteria, sending flares and warnings for days. The taste of sickness overshadowing all that is good and sweet and comforting. ‘You like them green, well a little green.’ ‘Right, not green and not brown – yellow… maybe a little green at the top. As close as you can get.’ He knows but he’s unsure of himself. He suggests soup, but I remind him that I’m good with tomato, besides most soups have meat in them.
A quick log in and a bank transfer. A giant hug goodbye as he smirks and says, ‘I don’t want your sickness,’ and he’s off. Headed downstairs, click-click-click goes his ankle as he makes his way down the hall and down the stairs. Our conversation setting off the tiniest of cravings, I make my way to my ‘hidden’ stash of cinnamon discs. Twenty calories of sugary distraction. Pros – my brain thinks I’m comforted. Cons – Sugar. Sugar. Sugar. I resist the urge to bite down as I flip the disc around, enjoying the reminiscent taste of cinnamon.
Photo by Ivars Krutainis