old man old house old memories
leaky cup
Monday, often a nonsensical ramble, let it be so and can somebody say “amen.”
Six-monthly dermatology visit early, he zaps, mutters about cutting, checks his notes and remembers the pink dot high on my left cheek is the first thing my mother saw moments after I was born.
Presumably the next thing Mama saw was blue eyes: they have not been my enemy these eight decades.
Adult Sunday School table continues full, but Mike and I miss Jane. Yesterday we looked at the Oct 5 gospel reading and compared Matthew’s treatment of it as strong allegory, to Mark’s version, then back to the same parable in the Gospel of Thomas, which may be closer to Jesus’ original.
Physically and mentally exhausted couple emptying an enormous house of a century of generations’ possessions so the realtor’s photographer can come take pics before the listing goes online and people start traipsing through. A proverb somersaults to out of mind out of sight because of the number of things that had been in their place and spot so many decades that I no longer saw them until this drill of cleaning up and out: family bulletin board and calendar in the passageway, loaded shelf by my side of the bed, becrumbed toaster on the kitchen counter, dozens of beloved little sticky notes Kristen and C1 C2 stuck up on a kitchen cabinet. General Quarters, General Quarters, all hands man your battle stations, this is not a drill. Don’t snap at me, I’m working as fast as I want to, which is to say, “not very.”
My, Alfred's, house has a heart. There's a feeling deep inside that sadness has returned.
Auction lady’s moving van was packed full leaving here with all my good stuff to sell. Linda is keeping her things, selling my junk to the highest bidder. I’m keeping my little cup with the doggie picture that I remember from three quarters of a century ago: this morning I filled it with Kona coffee only to find that most of it had leaked out before I got to my chair to sip it. Old men aren’t the only things that leak when cracked and mended.
Sunday Nightly phone call from Tass last evening. Tass and Jeremy took the girls out for supper the other evening. At the restaurant they told them Nana and Papa are selling their house and moving, which Tass said caused instant bursts into loud wailing and sobbing that lasted through the entire meal and attracted the attention and concern of everyone in the restaurant.
Seems empty with most of the furniture gone, art down from the walls, echo in some rooms. A room is still a room, eh, Dionne? What is my house thinking?
Many years ago my son and daughter-in-law separated, breaking my little grandson’s heart. And mine. Some months or a year or so later, for economic reasons, they moved back in together temporarily, just for a while. When time came to separate again, this time permanently and on to divorce, the little boy, whom I loved beyond imagining, was devastated. The morning his dad moved out forever, he sobbed and cried and cried. His parents asked him why he was so upset, when he had known all along that the time back together was just temporary. He sobbed, “I’m remembering how sad I was the first time this happened.”
Is my house remembering the first time this happened?
T