Monday, March 20, 2006

fighting the mice and a little airplane

I'm taking a break from ridding myself of mice. Sitting at my computer in the living room, German pop music playing: Sie kann fliegen.

I have a mouse or two. They nibble at the bottom of the plastic grocery bags that hold my garbage, making holes large enough for themselves to burrow into a paradise of fair trade coffee grounds, used lemon-ginger and Moroccan mint tea bags, discarded strawberry stems, empty organic milk cartons, torn-up receipts, old nylons.

My garbage bags hang from a clever wire rack on the inside of the counter door under the sink. But today I bought a metal garbage can, which will hopefully deter the wild foraging of my little furry housemates. I stuffed a whole package of steel wool into the crack at the back of the cupboard floor against the wall, hoping to keep the mice out. Empty paper bags, cleaning supplies, plastic gloves, cleaning rags, and unused rolls of paper towels are scattered across the kitchen floor. This sight tired me; I came into the living room and found 2raumwohnung on itunes.

I don't think Mary's suggestion of making new body memories is helpful in this particular case. What's the point: they aren't my memories. My dad wasn't that person, and I wasn't any other than the stubborn, serious-eyed girl who despised her father mainly out of self-protection. And I don't despise him now anyway, I've mined my childhood for every beautiful memory—every camping trip, every tree lovingly identified, every early morning dig for fishing worms—and these have become the map I use to remember.

On Saturday night I dreamed about Little. I dreamt I was waiting in a sunny field that served as a runway for small aircraft. A little airplane flew in, landing in the green grass. Little may have been flying the plane, although this was not clear in the dream. I watched, waiting beside some sort of white sign or barrier. Little walked from the plane over to me. He wasn't skiddish, but calm and confident. He smiled and gave me a warm hug, and his chest smelled of summer and freshly washed cotton. Things are definitely going to be OK.

It's late and I need to put the kitchen floor back under the kitchen sink.

No comments: