Monday, May 11, 2015

Repair Central

A favorite piece of art by I Made Arya Dwita Dedok

Things are breaking here in Margaritaville. The microwave, the toilet. The sinks are dripping which is a criminal, given the drought. And last night I felt as though I was breaking, a crucial leak sprung, unstoppable.

But the microwave repairman has just left and charged me nothing even though he replaced everything (a re-repair.) And the plumber has made off with a hundred bucks. Not a terrible price for the assuaging of guilt and fixing a toilet and a sink.

I have friends coming to dinner and I'm lying on the couch, flattened by some kind of cellular recognition in my body that last year about this time, it was the beginning of the end for Dan. I feel it in the slant of the sun, the way the wind blows, and in how the fog rolls in. I feel it in the way the world looks as I walk in the surf, knowing that my feet are falling in the same places on the sand.

I keep hunting for ways to feel better and the only idea that sounds good is living outside. I googled it. I like the highlighted suggestions of other things to try. I feel hemmed in. It's hot in my house and stuffy. If the door opens for even a minute, my mother asks if the air-conditioning is on. The ceiling bothers me and I think the sky would feel better. I always think a second glass of wine, or a third will relax me out of sadness and I'm hardly ever right. I might pitch a tent on my patio and give a friend the key to my wine refrigerator for safekeeping.

My mother, thank god, is feeling well. Remember the moaning that has driven me insane for the past three years? She's stopped. And last night we had Chinese food for Mother's day and this was her fortune.

My fortune is more puzzling. 

I'm not sure where to find this merry heart medicine.

But I do think of one of my favorite pieces of art (see above.) My heart is heavy these days, and I thank those of you who are helping to carry it. Especially those bent beneath the unwieldy heavy end. A million thanks. I'm going to get up now and set the table.


lily cedar said...

Anniversaries are often hard, everything comes back and reminds you of what happened. It's burned into your brain. It's how our brains work. It will pass though. Sending hugs.

Ms. Moon said...

Our bodies do recognize anniversaries and as Lily Cedar said, they are hard.
Whatever it takes to get through it- do that.
I wish you could get away, go find a treehouse to sleep in so that the boughs could rock you gently.

ain't for city gals said...

you just have so much going on...and really had no time to grieve for Dan. I don't know what the answer is but know that you are doing (did) the right thing... for Dan and your mom and you will not regret anything.

Elizabeth said...

That muscle memory -- I swear it plagues me around June 14th, the day Sophie was diagnosed. It's like the literal embodiment of time -- as if we have an imprint in the air and the earth of "what happened then."

I hope your heart is lifted soon. That's what happens, isn't it? That weird release and lift, out of nowhere.

I'm sending love and hugs and all things buoyant and gentle.

Julie Mueller said...

37paddington said...

I so understand the feeling of being hemmed in, or feeling the ceiling pressing down on your head. Pitch that tent, really do it. Your loved ones are holding you tight.

I Made Arya Dwita Dedok said...

Thanks Denise Emanuel Clemen from Indonesia