Chapter 1
986 Words
A red robin flew into the window over the sink today. I felt blue before she arrived. By the time her tiny crown met the glass in the space between Here and There, I was deep in heavily pigmented hues. I did not observe any evidence of bruising. Still, I felt guilty. She must have known and worried. She recovered. I did not. I wondered if red and blue still makes purple.
The suffragettes might know. Then again, they might not. As much as huge swaths of our current reality feel predictable, even larger swaths do not. I wonder what they would think of today’s world. Pride or prejudice? Universal acknowledgements notwithstanding, the absurdity of our current predicament might bewilder even the brainiest of birds. Owls, too. I reserve my inclination, natural unfortunately, for paltry language. They would not be pleased. Nevertheless, I pause and ponder a better way to frame the giant mess of poo we find ourselves in.
I think of Mary D Hussey. A founder of the New Jersey State Woman’s Suffrage Association. The year was 1890. Each letter important, she held an officer position continuously for 20 years. Consistency is everything. Sticking with problems long enough to either solve or solidify them. Martha Cranston of Delaware, too.
They are essentially neighbors. Mine, too. Further north, I follow the work of Louise Colburn from Maine. Too far to visit. Too close not to.
I keep clippings of their work. The black-and-white newspaper stories digitized and shared from tiny libraries up and down the East Coast. I find them and revisit words of long ago that remain fresh. Like those of Ms Austen, Ms Bennet, and Mr Darcy.
“What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr Darcy!”
“It ought to be good,” he replied, “it has been the work of many generations.”
The work of many generations. Collected and curated in libraries. Museums, too.
Louise Coburn was a collector. In her will, she left orders that her words and her possessions be preserved. Money made her wish possible. Some things are as simple as black and white.
The black-and-white print makes us crave color. Life, too. I think again of Ms Austen’s pen.
What it means to love, too. With pride and with prejudice, they walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects.
Now, too. There is too much to be thought. Too much to be felt. All objects demand attention. All attention demands objects.
No matter. Despite the objects and attention in all spaces, it’s been a while since I’ve seen anything other than blankets of monochromatic hues.
It’s been months since I painted, too. One wall canary yellow whereas the others stand of a mild blue. Perhaps blue not the best choice of shades for a kitchen. At the time, the color reminded us of the sky. Now, it bears more resemblance to a mood than a color.
I lift my head and focus on the counter. A pack of spoiled blueberries near the sink. We had purchased them only yesterday. A delivery, of course.
I wonder if they soured on the drive from there to here. Or did the Instacart driver not notice?
I could have complained, asked for a refund. Of course, he encouraged me to. I resisted. Despite everything, I remain intent on retaining my will to resist.
Prioritize people over policy, they say. Perhaps it’s people over profits. No need to tarnish an otherwise clean record. We didn’t need them anyway.
Why not prioritize prevention over performance? Perhaps this is a pattern.
He never preferred patterns. He’d wrinkle his nose at my floral skirts, plaid blazers, and striped scarfs.
Perhaps if you wore them in isolation, I might feel differently, he countered.
Isolation? Perhaps. Yes, that might be nice.
He sighed. Of course, he did. And turned to the freezer.
Time for ice cream. Swapped for the gym almost 10 months prior.
The resident four-legged anthropologist watched all. Ears perked, mulling over people, patience, and priorities. Waiting for the puddles – tears, cream, crumbs, at my feet.
Like the morning, they come. Always.
Just as the dawn wipes memory of the stories of my dreams, I wonder about the shape of the story of their own memories.
The dog, having already reconciled competing priorities, continued to wait. I too mulled over priorities. Ultimately, I decided to sit down on the tile and clear out the bottom cabinet. Only, after 30 seconds, I no longer had the energy necessary to sort, shuffle, and discard. My love-hate relationship with clutter – collections of a life once lived – confusing and less casual with each passing year. I rescheduled the clean-out for the next day.
The next day, the kids found the puppy with something in its mouth. On autopilot, like life, I offered instructions. Pull down the box from the old bookcase in the garage. Three rows up from the bottom, two down from the top. Double layer the gloves and pull back your hair.
Why, they countered. Because I said so, I replied. Then cursed myself silently for doing so.
Go into the shed, turn on the light – the switch to the left – and grab the shovel. Then, go into the yard and lock the fence. I will toss a cheese stick out the windows. The one the robin visited just yesterday.
One of you needs to come fetch it. Only, don’t use the word fetch. It will confuse the dog.
Then, count to 20 and call the dog.
Wait for him to come to you. Don’t go to him. Offer the stick – not wood, cheese.
Then, wait. The second he drops whatever is in his mouth, scoop. Don’t scream. Don’t dwell.
I said nothing else, but silently prayed it wasn’t the robin.
- Writer
