I’m moving in. i haven’t written a word since Friday. Ask Pat, he knows I’ve been grumpy with all the boxes and things to organize and the fridge than may or may not work and the cat with her whiskers covered in cob webs (she’s been having a great time once the shock wore off).
I started putting books away, coffee mugs. Our 70s Danish rug is turned on like a psychedelic river in the entry room. I’m wearing Pat’s shoes.
We hoisted box springs up the second floor balcony and moved a fridge. My strength doesn’t surprise me. I’ve always been strong. I moved furniture around my girl-room all the time – big dressers, beds – I rearranged until I could get out, until I got out.
People have lived and died in this house. My landlord told me. Her uncle had a heart attack in the dining room. But I don’t feel him here. I feel us here. This house is over 100 years old and I feel us – a new part of her history. I’ll spread myself on her walls, settle into the crook in the closet, place my thumbprint into her earth.
I’ve started trimming bushes and weeding and out in the yard, I felt home. I feel there is so much I can learn here – about plants and nails and myself…
the toilet is bleeding water onto the floor, now, and I’ll be back…
OK. I sort of did the toilet thing for dramatic effect, but seriously, the toilet really is bleeding onto the floor.
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