August 19, 2013
From a young age, I
have had a talent for making a scene. Thankfully I am not one to suck down a
twelve pack or overindulge in drugs, or anything that would make the ruckus
even more memorable for the audience.
Immune to surprise
of the goings-on upstairs, I spot the landlord and his hired Hispanic hand,
drilling out the lock from the big red door on the front porch. Evidently the
extended village has been moved-out, their meager belongings rest, abandoned in
the dank, wet impossible-to-pry-open-and-closed-double-door-with-ease, garage.
Evicted, forgiven but not forgotten, six eventual adults-to-be and two kids,
one infant and promises made in the dark, that do not pretend to hold true. The
anger and disturbing sleep activities that once caused me much distress, have
seeped out of me, in a slow trickle, until gone without a discernable trace. I once
felt obligation to the human ruins and now they are distant memories. What
happened to them could have happened to anyone, even me. The air is expectant,
the hope of good people arriving anytime now, with matching furniture, a
sensible sound system, intact vehicles and a functioning, preferably electric
lawn mower.
The cat appears
miraculously cured with endless brushing, of what few teeth he has left in his
little head, rigorous gum scrubbing and gentle wiping of his eyes, with
drippings from Hydrogen Peroxide-laden gauze pads. His right weepy eye is
cleared-up and he spends a lot of time now, wandering the new adobe, nails
clicking on the hard wood floors, searching for something to bide his time.
Grill nibbles hard on my fingers, as if he is a feature in Ripley’s Believe It
Or Not, and yet I do not have the heart to force him to try and conquer dry
kibble. So, life is good, great, in fact, and that is that, for today.
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