an update long coming - in the box
2-14-08Happy valentines day sweetie.
It's funny what you keep in the garage. The stuff you can find, the odds and ends, the memories from years ago. Lives ago. chapters of our lives we keep closed up in boxes and left to winter and wither in the dusty dark corners of time. Some of it we even forget about because we can or want to. Or some of it we always want to remember but can't bear to keep in any prominent place. It's kind of weird, I know. Keeping you in a box in the corner of the garage. I don't want to keep you there. Every day I can't bear to open the box and look at you. I'm afraid I'll find you still there. Part of me wants to open the garage door for once and have my attention drawn to anything else in there first. But every time I go in there, you are the first thing, the only thing on my mind. Creepy, but I half expect you to crawl out of that box, come trotting around the corner and stare at me with those "feed me" eyes you get. Or squeak your little "I love you" in that deaf-mute quiet little way that you do. You never said a word, but I would recognize your voice anywhere if I ever heard it again. I want so bad to hear it again. That's why I can't look in the box right now. I don't want you to be dead. I don't want you to be stuffed into that little box. All cold and uncomfortable; lifeless and stiff. I want you to be ok and I want you to be anywhere but where I left you. I couldn't always tell what you wanted. Would have given it to you if I knew. Oh how I tried to. If I knew what your little whimpers were for, I gave you your heart's desire. It was the simple things that lit up your eyes and made your day. If we were all so simple. A scrap of meat. A pat on the back. Someone to hold us from time to time and whisper a sweet word or two. I remember you falling asleep in my arms. Holding you that last time was the worst. I knew I wouldn't be able to again. I held your head, so limp, and kissed your forehead. I cried my quiet tears for your quiet life. And stuffed you in that box. I couldn't think of anything else to do. I couldn't have you far from me any time soon. I still don't want you to be gone, I still don't want you anywhere but here. With me. Even if it is in a box, in the dark corner of the garage. Where everyone will be able to forget about you. Where I look first every time I open that door. Right next to the tent and the tools and some useless, discarded parts of the past. It's funny what we keep in the garage. But I just wish, the next time I have to look at your box, that it doesn't smell, that I open it, it's empty and there you are curled up in some other corner. Just sleeping.
2-13-08 I haven't written in a while. I'm sorry for that. It's not like I haven't wanted to or that I haven't had much to write about. No, it's just that I've sort of almost been afraid to. I used to be so familiar with words, so confident in everything I put to page. No; now I'm just so insecure. I question everything I think say and do now. Now life just seems more pointless than ever and I can't make sense of it, let alone twist it enough to make it entertaining on the page. So here's my lame attempt at writing something, just for the sake of writing. Here I am, just trying to let a little out. I hope my honesty isn't too boring or dull, or worse yet droll. It was the other night he died. I came home and I felt guilty for walking right over his limp body lying on the floor. I didn't notice him. Like every other night, I just didn't notice him. It took me a few minutes, settling into "home" and putting away my day. I saw him lying on the floor and the way he was arched seemed odd. His eyes were half open, his mouth too, and he seemed still. Too still. I realized something must have been wrong and I dropped everything and held him. He was warm but still. I closed his eyes and tears came to them. I don't think I was so lucky, but I like to try to think that he died in my arms. Honestly I want to think his last coherent moments weren't alone or waiting for me, or watching me step over him. I like to think he realized I cared, felt me kiss him goodnight and then slipped away. I think though, that it wasn't so. And I feel guilty for walking right over him, for not noticing. I want him to know that I care. I won't get another chance at that. I guess that's the way death is. Final, heartless, cold. Lonely. Without him here, that's how I feel right now. Though he was so old that we rarely had our moments of companionship anymore, without him here I just feel so lonely. Guilty and lonely.