Stray Dogs

8, April 2011 at 8:18 PM (sad or sorry for myself) (, )

I’m the kind of person who, when someone or something dies, I leave things they touched or that I associate with them exactly as they were. The blanket I wrapped my 20-yr old cat in when we brought her to the vet for cremation still sits on a shelf by the door where I put it when I came home without her almost year ago. There are little notes and drawings I put on a dresser in my room when I came in after being out with the friend who made them– and he was killed four years ago. I don’t know what I think I’m doing, I don’t look at these things or think about them. I don’t even see them at all when I look around. It’s like they’re not even there. I guess there’s just something in me that is trying to make something stay. Or maybe I think something else will happen, maybe they’ll come back, and whatever thing is marking their place in time and space won’t be just a thing marking their place in time and space anymore.

When I do the dishes, if I forgot to do it myself before I started, I sometimes poke my head out the door and ask my son to go around the house and bring me the stray cups and glasses which might be hanging around. Tonight he came in with a coffee cup I used last night, and a drinking glass with Scottie dogs on it which had been left on the coffee table. I forgot about the Scottie dog glass. I’d been wondering at what point I’d feel ready to bring it into the kitchen. It was left there two and a half weeks ago, used by my former partner when he came over for dinner, which, as things turned out, became the last time we ate together at home. Had I not forgotten about it, and asked my son to collect the strays, I wouldn’t have moved it yet. I wanted it to sit there until he came back and would be having dinner with us again, and The Thing Marking His Place in Time and Space would again be just an ordinary glass.

In contrast, yesterday– after giving me a ride home from the library, where we unexpectedly ran into each other– my ex told me that if I was getting it on (my phrase) with other guys, it would “hurt… a little bit” (his exact words, pause included), and only just his ego (he made sure to add), but ultimately he’d be happy for me because he wouldn’t like to think of me just sitting around being depressed all day.

“A little bit”— why add that?! Unless you’re trying to communicate someone didn’t matter much to you? Meanwhile, I’m trying to leave untouched on the table the last glass he’ll have ever used. Have I called myself an idiot in this blog yet? I think I’ll make that a tag so I can see in the tag-cloud how much bigger it gets than everything else.

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