I had some ideas of what to write this morning. The journalist in me wanted to correct my “Cheering me on along the way” blog from the other day. I spoke with my sister yesterday and our memories didn’t jibe. I melded my father’s reaction to me wanting to be an artist with Annmarie’s career declaration. The “Like hell …” was likely a response to me. A blog is not a newspaper. And I am not the public editor. A correction would be like scratching out a diary entry and rewriting it, which only happens when you are 12 and your first crush broke your heart and you need to remove all instances of his name your diary. I’m 46 and I am way past my first crush.
So, instead, I’ll focus on the refrigerator. Recently, I pulled an old Ziploc bag filled with word magnets out of the storage closet. I can’t remember when we last used them. Bridget’s father packed them up before a move and they’ve been stuck inside the Ziploc bag since then. He also tucked a picture magnet of my sister Annmarie and me from our first trip Disney World. He didn’t like that picture of us. But, I did, and still, do, and now it and the word magnets are back on the refrigerator.
Bridget and I have had fun with the word magnets. We’ve done some puzzles, too, recently. I like that both bring us together, we focus on the task, and yet are not too focused that we can’t converse and enjoy one another’s company. When I am preparing dinner, she’ll stand in front of the refrigerator and sort and group the words, she’ll make her own story, or just prep the words for a day when we’ll create one together.
A clear box containing word magnets, yet to be separated, almost fell off the top of the refrigerator the other day. I caught it, and placed it atop the refrigerator, just inside the door overhang so it wouldn’t fall off again. My coffee in one hand, I grabbed the cube with the other. I sat down at my desk this morning and committed to writing something with the cube’s contents, words whose adhesive still binds them together. It’s Sunday, a purist I am not, this is my blog and not a refrigerator, so I’m using as many words as I want to connect these words. Here I go:
We were home. Our cabin in the woods. We dug a hole in the dirt far enough from the bush that the fire would not spread to the outhouse. We felt fat and full and our breath was labored. We played too many games, ate too much candy, and indulged in too much atomic bomb cake. We would give anything to have our bloated bellies deflated. Maybe if we pray real slow to god an angel will be sent to heal us from our overindulgences? With any luck, she’ll arrive before we crap it all out. We now know to avoid games with green licorice whips and tequila shots. If we were only wiser a few hours ago. If only we could have found the word, the one word, to decline. No. Of course, why couldn’t we just say it? Because our eyes and bellies made the decisions then, one hand after the next followed their orders. The sweets resembled bugs trapped in another’s web, its owner, the spider in slow motion, moved one leg after the next and carried each sweet into its mouth. It was easy work. We were wild and rabid. And now we were filled with more than regret. We would give anything for a good night sleep, absent the bellyache, raging so fierce it feels like we are going to bleed inside out. Instead, we’ll sit here by the fire, very close to the outhouse, hoping that relief is not far away. We’ll remember this evening years from now, “Once, upon a time we crashed a 21st birthday party, and …”