I did not leave my key, and I did not take the body of my
cat-son of 19 years, but I took, or left, everything else. I took my leftover lonely female cat (I think for
a second she was worried I wouldn’t) and all her toys and food and brushes and
various accoutrements. I took the bed,
since it was mine to begin with, and the table, and the bookshelves too. I came with a ready-made household, and we
used to joke that Piera’s dowry was her salad spinner. I left the salad spinner, even though I
really did love it. I left the couch,
bought for us to share, on which I would always remember her sleeping with my boy-cat. I left her white end table, and of course her
own things; her bicycles and boxes and special chair. I took my mustard. I left her ketchup. I took the frames I had bought, but left her
some pictures, to remember.
I left tears, so, so many tears, I hope the new tenants don’t
float away. I took my books and my clothes and
possibly some day some lessons from all this, and a scalded, scalded, broken
heart. I left a love, a life, a quixotic
family of two girls and two cats. I took
some questions, a lot, actually.
How? Why?
I sorted through the household, and my tears, in the very
best way I knew how. Erratically, sometimes
drunk, kept standing only by my family and friends, I took and left until I
thought I would go mad with grief, and then I got another box out and kept
going. And now, today, the last load has
come. The car is packed, and I’m sitting
on the living room floor, hoping to finish with tears, for now.
I took her decision (what else could I do?) And I left our life. Now it’s time to lock up the house, and take
off.
