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I came home today for the first time in almost two weeks. I walked into my bedroom and it smelled different. It looked different too. The fitted sheet that is meant to hug the mattress was pulled off in the corner and the pillows were strewn all over the floor. My friends from Arizona were the last to sleep here and as I stood staring down at the sheets and bed I felt like I was peering into the room of a stranger.
My dresser and nightstand are piled high with books that I've finished, perhaps the only indication that this place belongs to me. Beside the towers of literature are cards from different holidays - mementos from family, friends, my love that are perhaps more meaningful than the gifts they accompanied. I pick up one and read the scrawled words from K. It is a message that still brings pools of tears to my eyes... I blink and my heart fills with a joy I didn't know was possible.
I open the vertical blinds that lead to my balcony and my eyes are drawn to the plant in the corner. It was a beautiful cactus that bloomed with the most brilliant purple flower when it was given to me. I hadn't been able to keep it alive for more than a month, a truth I am a bit ashamed to tell. After the leaves had dried up and the flower had long fallen off I moved the potted plant to the balcony hoping the sun would resuscitate it. It didn't and a wind storm had long ago knocked it on it's side where it's remained for at least the last year. Every time I see it I feel a little guilty. Yet I haven't taken it down to the trash. Why do I do this?
The big comfy chair I inherited from neighbors back when Josh and I lived together doubles as a collection spot for my massive pile of clothes. Despite my closet being organized by season, the garments all facing the front of the house like soldiers in a line, my chair always seems to be vomiting clothing. I try things on, maybe five or six before deciding and they never seem to make it back in line. Beneath all of the clothes is a suitcase, half emptied- in the year that I've been splitting my life between my house and K's, I've shuttled my stuff back and forth in everything from fabric Gelson's bags to laundry baskets to fancy leather luggage. Less is shuffled home each time.
I change my sheets and light a candle hoping to make the room smell like home again. I take out the trash and hang up my clothes and even wipe down the bathroom a bit. And then I get in the shower and let the cool water wash over me. There is silence here. There is an emptiness in the solitude.
I had grown accustomed to so many days straight with K while his babes vacationed with their Ma. He shares custody and though I will sometimes come along on their adventures, more often I respect that they shouldn't always have to share their Papa. On those weekends I come back to my little place in the Val and I do the things I did before I was part of a couple. I read, sometimes try to write, watch brain candy reality shows. Some nights are spent with friends but most are spent alone and I don't really mind that. There's something therapeutic about doing whatever your heart desires, catering to the whims of just one. I eat cereal for dinner and I spend hours with my legs draped over the back of my couch, my nose in a novel, reading about the lives of imaginary people. This time is all mine.
My dresser and nightstand are piled high with books that I've finished, perhaps the only indication that this place belongs to me. Beside the towers of literature are cards from different holidays - mementos from family, friends, my love that are perhaps more meaningful than the gifts they accompanied. I pick up one and read the scrawled words from K. It is a message that still brings pools of tears to my eyes... I blink and my heart fills with a joy I didn't know was possible.
I open the vertical blinds that lead to my balcony and my eyes are drawn to the plant in the corner. It was a beautiful cactus that bloomed with the most brilliant purple flower when it was given to me. I hadn't been able to keep it alive for more than a month, a truth I am a bit ashamed to tell. After the leaves had dried up and the flower had long fallen off I moved the potted plant to the balcony hoping the sun would resuscitate it. It didn't and a wind storm had long ago knocked it on it's side where it's remained for at least the last year. Every time I see it I feel a little guilty. Yet I haven't taken it down to the trash. Why do I do this?
The big comfy chair I inherited from neighbors back when Josh and I lived together doubles as a collection spot for my massive pile of clothes. Despite my closet being organized by season, the garments all facing the front of the house like soldiers in a line, my chair always seems to be vomiting clothing. I try things on, maybe five or six before deciding and they never seem to make it back in line. Beneath all of the clothes is a suitcase, half emptied- in the year that I've been splitting my life between my house and K's, I've shuttled my stuff back and forth in everything from fabric Gelson's bags to laundry baskets to fancy leather luggage. Less is shuffled home each time.
I change my sheets and light a candle hoping to make the room smell like home again. I take out the trash and hang up my clothes and even wipe down the bathroom a bit. And then I get in the shower and let the cool water wash over me. There is silence here. There is an emptiness in the solitude.
I had grown accustomed to so many days straight with K while his babes vacationed with their Ma. He shares custody and though I will sometimes come along on their adventures, more often I respect that they shouldn't always have to share their Papa. On those weekends I come back to my little place in the Val and I do the things I did before I was part of a couple. I read, sometimes try to write, watch brain candy reality shows. Some nights are spent with friends but most are spent alone and I don't really mind that. There's something therapeutic about doing whatever your heart desires, catering to the whims of just one. I eat cereal for dinner and I spend hours with my legs draped over the back of my couch, my nose in a novel, reading about the lives of imaginary people. This time is all mine.
You have a nice life megs
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