“…I cannot tell you how long this road shall be, but fear not the obstacles in your path, for fate has vouchsafed your reward. Though the road may wind, yea, your hearts grow weary, still shall ye follow them, even unto your salvation.” (O Brother Where art Thou?)
I had a shitty thought.
One of those thoughts that lingers, poisons and taints the air.
Time to open a window.
The Parable of the Bed.
Mr. Jesus…no… he is no here.
Once upon a time, in an apartment far, far away. St. Anthony and I were on break up number 6/250.
His excuse for continuing communication…his stuff. HIS stuff was in MY house. Oh the horror right? The excuse people come up with to stay in each other’s lives, kidnapping lamps and whatnot. It’s ridiculous, with a bit of sweetness once enough time has passed and your eyes relax.
Really, he was still talking to me because he still loved me, he still does…love doesn’t dissipate, it morphs, but it never goes away.
The opposite of love is truly indifference. There are players from my past life that could have stolen the Hope Diamond from me and talking to them for one minute to try and get it back? They ain’t worth it. Their absence is bliss.
St. Ant? Hindsight with him is as beautiful as a stained glass window on a sunny day.
But um…what about the bed?
That was the clincher.
In a grand show of independence and feigned indifference I spent a tear filled day packing everything he owned, down to the last coffee spoon and artfully stacking it in the back mudroom of the house. Every box labelled with great clarity as to the contents. It was impressive really. The futon, disassembled, bookshelf artfully wedged in a corner. And the extra amazing thing? I could lock the inside door, mail him the key and he could have all of HIS things without stepping foot in MY house.
Except the bed.
Fuck.
There is no rest for the broken hearted forced to sleep upon the mattress of sex-stained memories. I wanted that fucking thing OUT god dammit. I even bought a new bed, one I had wanted since I was a teenager. Glorious off-white paint, slightly beat-up, scroll-worked, wrought-iron, antique perfection.
Fuck I loved that bed.
Fuck I loved that apartment. But when the new bed was leaned up against the wall in the bedroom and I was trapped in our old matrimonial bed, sleep was elusive at best and my room felt like a prison.
I know I made all of that up in my head, putting emotional attachments on hunks of wood and iron, but again, I had yet to pull back and realize the broken window was actually a beautiful mosaic.
I was vexed. Proper vexed. The longer the new frame leaned, the longer I had to hear from Ant. I wanted out of jail and I just had to solve the puzzle.
2 weeks later, having slept on the couch (my new couch, I bought it myself) for 10 days. I woke up one morning and realized…THE BED GOES UNDER THE BED.
By nightfall, I had my shiny new bedroom all feng shui’ed into perfection with my dream bed in place and the old frame, disassembled and stored artfully under the new. Shot Ant a text saying, “come get your shit, I don’t want or need it or you”, and slept like the dead.
3 days later, there was a fatal shooting at my work, he was home, at the farm, heard it on the radio and did the 90 minute drive to my house in 60 minutes and proposed to me, for the second time. Of course in that bed.
That bed?
Sisterwife sleeps in it now. That vexed me for a bit too. Until I realized things are just things. Literally everything can be replaced or lived without. Shit happens, stuff gets lit on fire, or stored for 2 years whilst I wander and I can’t remember why I kept that whatchamacallit. It’s all perspective and the ability to relax your eyes and let go. There are unicorns and sailboats waiting.
The shitty thought that prompted this whole thing?
Life is a series of smooth sailing and obstacles. If you want something bad enough, you’ll figure out a way. I wasn’t worth even the slightest attempt at thinking around a corner.
He said his peace and counted to three.
The end.
