Tuesday, June 27, 2017
Every day another piece of mail comes with his name on it. At first, the letters looked so strange in the little metal mailbox, tilted on its side, waiting.
Sometimes, there's this: his laughter at something funny I am thinking about. My subconscious is bringing him in on the joke. Jokes, the language we could reliably speak.
June 14: Then something else happens. Something in the real world of courts and human pettiness that send me right back to my soapbox of Thanks For Leaving Me With Your Mess. I will have to, and must, put down the conversation between my higher self and his higher self. (Maybe his higher self is wearing worn overalls and squints a lot when he talks, but he exists, I think). Back to the forwarded mail and intrusive "as is" offers, now addressed directly to me. The heaviness of debt. I can't be learning-how-to-ride-a-bike me, or emotional-meltdown me. I have to be Grownup Me. Grownup Me has sharp lines between her eyebrows, gastritis, sleeplessness. She wants to dump all the heartache and thousand-yard stares and start again.
June 27: Back to waiting. Days are coins collected and tossed, one by one, into the muck. I can spend them as I choose. Flipping so the sun hits their surface just right, or toss 'em in, impatient, searching for some meaning or a better metaphor.