Barefoot Iowa

In a short while, my son (my sweetheart) will pick me up and take me home for the last time. I was going to write about it after but I find myself needing to tell myself, You will get through this. One more time.

I could have said no. I could have said I can’t handle seeing my house that is no longer my house. I could have said let it go.

At first I did say all that. Because there are no fairy godmothers or benevolent witches who will magically appear and say, “Don’t go, you live there, silly, you won’t be able to leave. Let us give it to you so you may have it forever and for free,”

Then I thought, this is my chance.

I could say yes.

I do not have to chain myself to a termite chewed post in the basement. But it is okay to want to.

I can walk through it one more time before it is gone forever even though I’ve done that before. When I did it the last time, I did not know it would be for sale again and I could have one more chance to see all the cabinets my dad built himself.

I can smell the musty basement one more time.

I can touch the catalpa trees.

I can say goodbye to the 500lb concrete planter I left in the front yard because I could not lift it to take it with me the last time I left.

I can see the little bedroom upstairs with the magic of electricity finally in it.

I can look out my mom’s kitchen window.

I can look out the window of my old bedroom.

I can touch the cold porcelain of the claw foot tub.

I can see the absence of the garage, the mystery of why someone took the front door and replaced the back door with it, my mother’s absurd under-the-sea decorations in the basement half-bath, my father’s old workshop, the secrets only I know.

I can visit my ghosts.

So I said yes. I will go.

I plan to discuss my absence with them, although, I am sure, they already understand.

I plan to lean into their longing and close my eyes and tell them, “I know you.”

I miss you.

I remember you.

My only wish is this- please, to whoever is in charge of these things, let them lean into me and tell me the same things.

Softly but firm.

Please dear holy of whatever is holy, let my ghosts be home when I visit.

Tell them I am on my way.

These are the things I must let go. And these are the words I must use to do it.

Like a spell.

“We can’t do that for you because we couldn’t do it for the others. We don’t want them to resent you if we give you more.”

I understood. I accepted. I worked to earn. I put in the time. I attempted to do extra.

They resented me anyway.

They said I was given things. Handed things. That life was made easier for me because I was last. That I was spoiled to make up for my accidental arrival.

The only one who didn’t resent me was the felon. He said, “I don’t give a fuck if you take them all for everything they’ve got. I’m nobody to them.”

But he did not hold it against me when I didn’t.

And he didn’t laugh at me.

He just shook his head and told me being soft hearted would kill me some day.

Today is that day.

So, I am putting these words out there into the ether so I can let them go. They spread like a virus for too long. Today, they become my spell.

Goodbye words that are not true. Goodbye resentful attitudes. Goodbye the shame of being an oops and a glitch and a wrinkle in the what-have-you of whatever blessed thing they had before my arrival.

I bind you from doing harm.

I bind you from doing harm.

I bind you from doing harm.

Yes. You.

But I started watching Tiny Beautiful Things because I’m a fucking idiot.

I knew it would be better than good. I fucking knew it would be one of those shows to send me straight up my own asshole where I do not want to be, looking around at things I do not want to see.

Dear Sugar. What the actual fuck is right.

I have a serious love/hate relationship with shows and movies that are almost but not quite about me.

A Man Called Otto. Captain Fantastic. Sharp Objects. A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.

Tom Hanks just showed up here twice. I sense a theme.

The theme was supposed to be something along the lines of looking into the mirror and seeing all the other people who turned into the person you were supposed to be.

I looked into the mirror and found Tom Hanks.

No. If I were Tom Hanks I’d have a fantastic wife, I’d look good for my age and I’d have better health insurance.

I’m not sure I’m ready for these tiny beautiful things I didn’t do.

I’ve already paused it at the beginning of episode three and I don’t think I’ll go back in tonight.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll look up my own nose.

Tonight, I think I’ll play with these tiny beautiful kittens I’ve got running around my not so tiny feet.

I don’t now.

Perhaps there’s something wrong with me.

Probably there’s something wrong with me.

When my favorite seven-year-old good-boy cat died I didn’t cry. I wrapped him in an old, soft baby blanket that used to belong to his favorite girl, duct taped him in an Amazon box, and handed him over to my husband to be buried.

His pregnant widow just gave birth to four more baby thems and one of those baby thems has not survived his travel from mamí’s belly to the earth plane. When I attempt to retrieve him, Mamí stands on her back legs, puts her hands on my arm and looks me in the eye to tell me, “Not yet, please,”

I sit here, not crying.

I sit here, wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.

I can’t remember the last time I cried.

That is an almost lie. If I put some effort into it, I remember. I just choose not to.

The almost, maybe truth is that I am always crying.

It just doesn’t come out of my eyes.

The almost truth is, all I am is crying.

The truth is, there is a limited number of times a person, me, can be broken. After that, there is this.

I’ve looked her over. She is a she. She is a gray and black, mackerel tabby with a white belly, four white paws, eighteen pink toe beans, and a white tip on the end of her tail.

I am a lady with a dead kitten. I want to name her Lil Pin. Or Lilliput.

She never felt stiff. She never felt cold.

She just went from breathing and wiggling to not breathing and not wiggling and now that I’ve taken her from Mamí (who tried very hard to convince me to give her more time), it turns out my eyes do leak sometimes.

Sleep dislikes me so much, it has decided to see other people.

I tried bribing it with new positions and it still wasn’t interested.

I tried the bed, the floor, the recliner and it still said no.

Upright, semi-upright, left side, right side and balasana. All no’s. That last one almost worked until my mind realized what all that looked like from the doorway to my bedroom and that was the end of that.

There is one cat in this house who is also running on his second week of third shift and that crazy dude is my buoy now. During the day we side-eye each other through heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyeballs and give each other a mental thumbs up.

See you tonight, bestie.

Today, he spent twenty minutes pilfering a Mickey D’s bag out of the kitchen garbage can. He spent another twenty minutes flattening the thing down just right to make a nest and he looked so close to a successful nap, I just stared, silent, thinking, “You go, boy,” in my head.

Then my husband went to bed and called his name and that was the end of that.

Now, here we are. Me and Roary. God and Goddess of the opposite of sleep.

Now, he’s staring at me like if I don’t actively get this sleep thing going right meow we need to go eat the goldfish.

I refuse to eat the goldfish.

And I’m awake enough to defend it. So, I guess I have to go talk a cat out of the aquarium.

Me and Roary, with his one wet paw, we’ll be right here, watching documentaries about British castles, with the sleep timer on the TV set for three hours.

Once upon a time there was a little girl who told me she was going to dance someday and be a, “really big deal,”.

Looking for something to stream, I passed by a movie called Leap and now I can’t stop remembering that little girl.

Leap was her favorite movie.

I gave her a ballerina sculpture once. And a picture of red ballet shoes for her bedroom wall.

I haven’t thought of her very much in almost four years because if I do, I will die.

Or, in a not exaggerated way, I will feel like I will die.

But, more accurately, I will remember I already died. Almost four years ago.

I would wake up at 5am and walk five blocks, before the sun came up, so my son could go to work.

I would wake her up and help her get ready for school. We would pick out her clothes and she would let me fix her hair.

Every school morning for all of pre-kindergarten, I did this.

Every afternoon, I would go back to meet her bus and walk her back to her apartment. We would make a snack and we would watch Leap and she would tell me about her friends and how she loved playdoh and sand and colored pencils. Sometimes she would let me show her how to write her name or how to tie her shoes or how to use the microwave or how to meet a new friend in the apartment complex.

When summer came, I walked to her house and stayed all day. We drew on the sidewalk with chalk. Little pictures for her dad. Pictures for her. Pictures for me. Flowers and rainbows and stick people and a thousand letter V’s for her name.

The last day I put her on the bus (for kindergarten, by then) she asked to hold my hand. She wasn’t really a hand-holder so I asked, “You doing okay?”

She said, “Ya,” and sighed. Which meant, “Read my mind Grandma,”

I said, “Have you got something on your mind, miss?”

She said, “I’m going to have a new house,”

I said, “Yes. Are you excited?”

She said, yes.

I said, “Are you a little nervous?”

She said, no.

I said, “Then what is it, toots? Maybe I can help.”

She said, “Maybe I’m a little sad,”

I said, “What is making you sad, honey,”

She said, “I don’t know,”

I said, “You’re an amazing person, lovie. You will make lots of new friends.”

She said, “Why will I have to make new friends?”

“You will be at a new school. The friends you have at this school will stay at this school,”

“I have to have a new school?”

“The new house is too far away for you to go to this school,”

And she said, “But, why?”

And then her bus pulled up.

I told her I would talk to her after school and help her through it and she said okay.

She was not a big hugger, but she hugged me.

She wasn’t big on saying love yous but she said, “Love you Grandma,”

I hugged her back, I said I love you, V, I put her on the bus and I didn’t see her again for three years.

I turned off my head and closed off my heart and I don’t leave my house very much anymore.

But, today, I can’t stop thinking about the picture of the red ballet shoes I gave her.

And I wonder if she thinks I lied.

Yes, you.

I’m concerned.

From the moment I became aware I had some control over certain things, not everything, of course, but some things (I know I’m not God. Or even a goddess) I decided I would use that control to teach what I could.

And I don’t see my lessons being lived by anyone.

You’re angry. I know I taught you, there are times when you should be angry. You should be angry when you are right and anger is the only choice to prove your point. When it is righteous.

From where I sit, your anger appears random. Willy-nilly. Aimed at the wrong targets and fought with the wrong ammo. You use hand grenades when a tap on a shoulder would be enough.

You’re sad. I know I taught you there are times you should be sad. You should be sad when you mourn a loss. When you miss someone. When you are disappointed.

From my vantage point, it appears you are sad over things not in your control. People who don’t behave the way you expect. Things that don’t fall into your lap because you want them.

You’re impatient. I know I taught you to live for now. Today. To find joy, right now. To look for it when it seems absent.

From what I see, you live for tomorrow. For things you don’t have. For people you haven’t met yet. You hurry. You run toward cliffs.

I know I taught you to take care. Take care of yourself and take care of your own lovies.

Take care so well, your lovies feel cared for.

They don’t.

Take care of yourself so well, you feel cared for.

You don’t.

I know I taught you not to wait to be rescued.

And there you are, wondering when the cavalry will show up.

I know I taught you to say thank you. To be grateful.

I know I taught you to say I love you when you mean it.

I know I taught you to help when you’re able and to ask for help when you need it.

I know I taught you to speak when you need to and to listen when you should.

From over here, where I am, all I see are fingers pointing at blame and shame and a refusal to look in mirrors.

If I did not take the time to attempt to teach you these things, this letter is an apology.

If I took the time to teach you these things and you didn’t listen…

I recommend you close your eyes, right now, and acknowledge there is an absence of something you can’t quite put your finger on.

Listen to the silence.

That absence is me.

The silence is mine.

I’d like some of my own. Maybe. But probably not.

This is today’s epiphany.

Emotions happen to other people.

They used to happen to me but I gave them up.

I watch my dude. How he is annoyed when he has to lift one foot higher than the other while walking because, if he doesn’t, a cat will kill him.

I listen to my dude. Bitching to the air (because he knows I don’t care) about how I don’t care.

Sitting here, just now, in came the dawn of thought and sunlight that said, “Lort, that man is full of feelings, I wonder what that’s like,”

I had to correct it to, “That man is full of feeling,” because, really, he only has the one.

Truth be told, I’m probably not actually hollow.

Truth be told, my problem is self-inflicted emotional constipation.

If y’all don’t care, then I don’t care.

Sure, I could do a deep dive up my own nose holes and give myself an in-depth soul douching, but, truth be told, I can’t be fucked for it.

I know all about what’s up there. In there. Around there.

In there is the part of the map that says, Here there be dragons.

And my dude is angry enough for both of us.

Not really. But really.

We suspect ADD. Or CADD, since he’s a cat.

Whatever issues Callie has, Rory has the opposite.

If Callie accidentally falls over just walking through the living room, Rory does an accidental somersault and lands on all four feet. On a table.

If Callie struggles to figure out “how to drink water from a bowl too small to stand in”, Rory helps her out by tipping the whole thing over and rolling around in it.

Then Callie licks the water off Rory.

He’s pleased as punch about it.

She’s happy to have such a nice brother.

If you come over, Rory will wear one of your shoes. If you were to take them off, of course.

He will also probably take a nap on your lap. Whether you want him to or not.

Rory has object permanence. If he were to get in trouble attempting to eat a nickel and I take it from him, he will watch where I put it and wait until I am asleep to retrieve it.

One night, I caught Rory halfway up the bookshelf. When I turned on the light to find out what all the ruckus was, he looked at me over his shoulder as if to say, “We could’ve avoided this if you left the jar of buttons where I can reach them,”

With Rory, no means go.

Stop means the game has begun.

With Rory, go also means go and the game never actually ends.

Until it is time to nap.

If it is naptime, he is asleep in a shoe or on a lap.

He will say, “Oh, hey, hi, I see you’ve brought your nap lap, that’s so nice of you, thank you very much,”

And before you are able to do anything about it, he will be asleep. Snore-purring. Snurring. Hugging your arm, resting the back of his head on your face

If there is actually something wrong with Rory, he will never be convinced.

But if you ask his sister, Callie, he’s almost purrfect. (She reserves the title of “total purrfection” for their other brother, Captain).

Without ADD meds.

Because 1. I’m not working. Don’t need to worry about focus in that department.

2. I’m not in school. Don’t need to concentrate for that.

3. My fucking driver’s license expired. Don’t need to concentrate as a passenger.

4. The entire country is “temporarily out of stock”.

I wondered if there would be withdrawal symptoms.

So far, I now take three naps per day and eateveryfuckingthinginthehouse.

But… I remember shit.

There were some fucking perks to ADD I forgot about.

Like the fact that my brain is returning to the, “every character from Charlotte’s Web” status from before ADD meds.

In my head, I am fun af. And Templeton really will eat anything. It’s my idio-idio-syncrasy. Because I am Some Pig.

Stream of consciousness writing is going to get wild, y’all.

I am supposed to drive with a DMV dude, (DOT dude? I never get those right, on or off meds).

In order to get my driver’s license renewed, I have to drive with one of those people with clipboards who checks off “stupid shit this bitch did while driving”.

Because, I accidentally let my driver’s license lapse for TWO YEARS past the expiration date.

In my defense, I didn’t notice because 1. I don’t have a car and 2. I don’t go anywhere and 3. I have ADD.

Then one day last month I thought I’d look up how long I had before it was time to renew my license and to my surprise but no one else’s, I was informed, I was so overdue to renew I had to prove I was still me and I’m still alive.

Because, obviously, someone who hasn’t renewed their driver’s license in two years must be dead.

I took the written test and passed on my first try.

Which is excellent news since I’ve had a driver’s license for 84 years.

I even got my picture taken and I fucking hate that. They didn’t let me see it though because I have to drive with clipboard guy first.

I think it will be in everyone’s best interest that I take my ADD meds the day I drive for clipboard guy.

I’ve already postponed it twice.

Because 1. I don’t have a car and 2. I fucking hate going outside.

But I have to go or Mr. Arable is going to sell me to Homer for six bucks.

And I have no spider friends.