I feel further and further away from you.
I figured the distance would help me get more upright and a bit more sturdy. It’s taken me a long time. I know you know that.
Even as you moved and connected so quickly with another, I was left scratching my head wandering what the hell had happened. What was I blind to, and why was I having such a hard time moving on?
But today, I walked into my new home and I felt the boards creak under my feet.
“Ah, this old thing.” I thought in my head. Stuffy as hell with no power to work the AC, but it is old and beautiful. Kind of like the one on Bryant Street, sans the lead paint. The kitchen is smaller, believe it or not. A back door heads out the kitchen, with a few steps leading to a clothes line and soft grass.
I see where I will plant my tomatoes.
I see where I will grow now.
It’s got a funny smell. Sort of like my G.G.’s house — mix of the fumes from a gas range and old wood. They sure did fix this place up since 1945.
The smell will change, too.
Coffee and laundry and time.
Oh yes, it will change.
Especially when I roast my first chicken there. I will think about the times you used to say, “MmmMm, it’s smellin’ good in here!”
And I would smile.
We tend to hold on to the good things that we remember warmly. I think our bodies naturally reject the bad, like a poison. At least in order for me to remember the bad, I have to put myself in a different place. Usually it’s when I’m alone, or a song comes on that makes me remember. I suppose choosing less and less to go there is a result of me moving on. I will always remember the pain in certain seasons, but these days, I find myself feeling thankful for the love and light that I was given.
I see a table in the dining room with cloth napkins and vintage silverware.
I see my pans hanging on the walls.
And I will remember how it felt to grow alongside those tomatoes.