I roll the grape between my pointer finger and thumb, feeling the icy exterior softening enough to be painlessly crushed between my teeth. On another night, not dissimilar to this one, I noticed that the grapes have a smell. A freezer smell. I clean the small space relentlessly and still; there’s a pervasive odor of plastic bags filled with frozen peas and ground chicken. A gag tickles the back of my throat in remembrance as I reach my hand back into the gallon Ziploc bag and grab another four to five grapes, relishing the cool air tickling the hair on my arm.
Closing the freezer door, I let my eyes adjust to the darkness again. This space is wholly mine in the way that spaces become after some period. Well, I suppose the appropriate caveat is to say that’s if you want them to. If you want your space to fit you like an oft worn pair of denim, that choice is often available to you. Well, available until it is not.
This thought plagued my overstuffed brain more often than I would care to admit while bearing witness to Harriet’s decline. What must it feel like to lose the feel of a place, of people, of things? What happens when you don’t innately know how far that corner of the bed extends or where the wicker basket containing six-pound weights is on the floor and how many steps it actually is to arrive at the threshold of your teeny bathroom? Does fear hit first, or is it purely agonizing frustration?
For now, my space is mine in that familiar sort of way and so, eyes open or closed, I can envision every single nook and cranny. Every knick-knack. Every decorative element. I can, without the benefit of a light, see the places that would result in stubbed toes or bruised knees, should they become invisible for one reason or another.
The window air con unit can’t really compete with the atrocious temperatures and humidity levels and so, while the area with my bed is comfortable, the kitchen is just a hair under that mark. Not patently uncomfortable, but also, not a space I might linger in. Infinitesimal bubbles of freezer cool float through the thick air, occasionally landing just above my belly button or in the crease by my elbow.
I scoop my thick curls with the hand I have free and pull them off my damp neck, scolding myself for the decision not to wrap them in the silk scrunchie sitting on the bathroom counter. A headache troubled me all day and to pull those hairs together in a collective felt like an invitation to return. No thank you, I whisper into the darkness.
Mo’s music has finally quieted and the lunatic upstairs has lowered his television to a passable volume. All I hear are intermittent jumbled streams of dialogue. Not enough to piece together the sentiments or even identify the source. I also know that my hearing is mildly supernatural, so I reserve judgment in this moment. It’s highly unlikely that he’s traversed into the land of inconsiderate neighbors again soon after receiving one of my special letters under his door, even though it’s clearly been proved to be a forte of his. I think the last love note I delivered was under three weeks ago, and it had just enough ‘if you would be so kind’ to stave off his bullshit until late July or so.
Above the pale murmur of voices, I hear the whisper of the air conditioning, and the gentle settling of this old building. Sometimes I imagine her as an old lady, breathing heavily and moaning as she sits her weary bones on a seat after a long day of hosting so many different humans.
I shift my weight into my left foot, running my right toes from just below my left knee to my bandaged left toe. Christy assured me last week that there’s a seat for every ass and thus, there’s likely some animal plugged into the dark web who would pay good money for artfully taken photographs of gnarly runner’s feet. My skepticism is just as pervasive on this quiet evening than it was when we were discussing this possibility over iced coffees at the beach. When I say “at the beach,” I of course mean sitting on a bench on the boardwalk. We laughed a lot when exploring the various facets of this endeavor and also, clearly considered it to be a viable exit strategy.
You don’t really have to show anything identifiable, she said.
I know, I replied, laughing, and I’m less certain I care these days anyway.
I do, care. Or at least I think I do, but I’m not sure if that’s genuine concern or the thought of what’s proper. Maybe I don’t really give a shit about that, either. Maybe it’s actually something far worse. Maybe it’s that I hate my feet. Maybe I find cringeworthy the burgeoning bunion and missing toenail and raw blisters. Perhaps it’s actually the humiliation that floods my body as I contemplate drawing attention to the ganglion cyst that appeared out of nowhere (really) or the callouses that, like barnacles on the underside of a boat adrift in the ocean, reappear a moment after they’ve been senselessly removed. Maybe it’s not my judgment of the humans that would fancy my lackluster appendages, but my judgment of those bits and parts that belong to me.
I love my feet. My feet that help me run and walk and take me away from things that I need to escape from.
I drop my hair from my left fist and unfurl my palm across my warm abdomen. It’s not always flat these days, but tonight it is. Firm and flat in the way you’d want your tummy to be when just over the hump of middle-age. Most of the time, my belly is quite nice, but that feels too personal. Too much like a slippery slope of some imagining.
Realizing I’ve been rolling a half-macerated grape around my tired mouth during this futile stroll down possibilities lane, I swallow, feeling the cold, sweetness travel down my throat and presumably, into my churning guts.
I don’t want to show anyone anything recognizable on my person, not really. Except that it feels like an out-clause to even contemplate such an outrageous situation, and I’m desperately seeking one of those, these days. An adventure into something new and different and a little gross and a lot funny.
Plus, you know what they say: one woman’s trash feet is another man’s treasure.
x
L.
P.S. Happy 4th- may we struggle our way towards a country we can be proud of again, one day.
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