This beige carpet is sand. I’m on a beach. The shirts, skirts, shorts around me are ripples, or waves, washing up around me. I tell myself it’s ok that they’re there, that I’m a mess, ’cause I get to dream.
That room divider screen can go. And that chair. And most of these clothes. I should probably get rid of some more stuff, but it’s hard. Like ripping off a Band-Aid, with my skin still attached. Note to self: stop being so sentimental.
I’d rather walk out and not come back. Just leave it all here, all behind. Who cares? Arrive in a new life, the one where I have an apt. in Paris, and a little beach spot maybe somewhere south. Where my book is published. Maybe even two of them. Where the words inside my head flow eloquently from my fingertips. Where Nana is healthy, and loves hanging out over croissants and coffee with her friends in the café below our apartment. Because they all speak the same language, even if they don’t speak the same language. If we’re really talking new life, Mom is there too. She’s happy and healthy too, and alive. And we have beautiful dinners outside with lovely friends and garden-fresh foods and lots of wine, and music, with a nice little breeze, and the scent of salt air, even in Paris. And people always come to visit. It’s a good place to be.
I pick up the clothes and put them back on hangers. I need to vacuum, so I do that, after I sprinkle dusty tropical stuff that I bought at the Dollar Tree onto the carpet. It smells nice but strong, which means it’s probably not good for you. But I do it anyway because I want it to smell fresh. Then I pour a glass of pinot noir, kick back on the futon/click-clack and listen to Nico. The end.