There is a spider in my shower, a daddy long legs. He or she is welcome. If you are living, in the winter, in my shower, God bless you for eating what you can find.
There is a quick and tiny little thing living in my bathroom. The cat and I stare in fascination as it scoots across the bath mat. I wonder where it comes from and how it can survive.
There are four pairs of footwear in my living room. Tall black boots, scruffy black slip ons, warm fleece lined slippers, shiny pink mary-janes. Do they talk to each other, compare journeys or ask in earnestness why she doesn’t put us away? Or do they just sit there, lumps of material, abandoned as they lay?
Look there, look at the woman in the armchair trying to figure out where to start. Typing this rediscovered piece is one way to go.
I am from milk and corn flakes without sugar.
I am from the condo under the stair, the eighth floor apartment and too many years in that old house on the hill.
I am from grass behind chains and sand on the beach. I am roses growing in pots and the trees that nature felled.
I am from Louisa May Alcott and The Lonely Doll. I am from loved ones who have died too young.
I am from violence and heart wrenching loss. From wanting and fear of want and waiting for the worst.
I am amazing and lazy and overwhelmed into lethargy by choices. I sing Que Sera and wonder if it is true while agreeing and hoping not.
I am a Jewish girl from Brooklyn, a Minnesota mother, a woman alone in the universe. From tragic grandparents and portraits of Jesse and Fay tucked away on a shelf, hidden from sight, stabbing the heart.
Sometimes I meet people and think I know who they are. The truth is I haven’t a clue. They are, like Shrek explains, like onions, with many layers and I just see the papery outer covering. And as Donkey goes on to say, some are stinky. Donkey likes something else with layers, he likes parfaits. I like parfaits, but a diet of sweets is not good mentally or physically. Onions can be delicious, but eventually you come to an end, no more layers.
I prefer to think of a giant jawbreaker, the kind so large all you can do is hold it in your hand and lick. Eventually the white coating is digested and a new color appears. My sister had one for over a year. She only licked one side so she could see all the layers. Maybe 50 or maybe 100, each thinner than paper, yet each one bright and different.
I had only seen Kay’s papery onion skin and a little of the outer layers. I knew she was vegetarian, a lyrical and honest writer, an administrator. I knew she was fiercely loyal to the writing group. And I knew she liked yogurt and apples.
Today I’ve seen the layers of bunny lover and rescuer, poet, and goddess. I see honesty and truth that is precious to me. I am glad to have seen a few of the colorful layers that protect her core. With openness and acceptance, a wonderful friendship is evolving in its own sweet time.