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( Memes )
My apartment has fleas. My exhibition opens on Friday.
I had this brilliant post worked out in my head on the drive home last night, but forgot it already. My memory is so selective, so poor.
The first summer My Ex and I moved in together, her cat gave birth to a litter. Our apartment was flea infested and they got all over the kittens. One of them died from blood loss due to all the fleas. They don't make flea shampoo for three week old kittens. The 800 number suggested we try drowning the fleas in a diluted shampoo bath.
I can remember dipping one of the kittens, the way the fleas spread out, unmoving, in a slow circle out. I can remember watching the teaming mass of tiny black dots covering them, blotting out their white fur. I can remember holding the wet kitten to my chest, a tiny shivering, mewling ball of wet fur, and the mass of scar tissue slowly building up from all the flea bites around that spot.
I can remember these things. The way My Ex stood holding her cat as we dug the little grave. I remember, it's in my heart as well as my head. The memory is full of sounds and smells and emotions. It's quite unlike all the stories of childhood I tell, which are only the repeated tales of my parents.
In those stories, I assume much about my emotions, or my thoughts. But I do not remember.
I can remember the fleas. I can remember earning JD's friendship and the times we used to hang out back in High School. But I cannot remember ever seeing My Ex smile.
Achingly Defiant complains often that I am too restrained, not impulsive enough for her. She wants a boy who will whisk her away on impromptu road trips, and speak his feelings without fear of consequences. Instead, she has a man who has fallen down those traps far too many times.
I cannot give her all those impulsive things. But I remember what waking up next to her felt like that first morning.
My apartment has fleas. My exhibition opens on Friday.
I had this brilliant post worked out in my head on the drive home last night, but forgot it already. My memory is so selective, so poor.
The first summer My Ex and I moved in together, her cat gave birth to a litter. Our apartment was flea infested and they got all over the kittens. One of them died from blood loss due to all the fleas. They don't make flea shampoo for three week old kittens. The 800 number suggested we try drowning the fleas in a diluted shampoo bath.
I can remember dipping one of the kittens, the way the fleas spread out, unmoving, in a slow circle out. I can remember watching the teaming mass of tiny black dots covering them, blotting out their white fur. I can remember holding the wet kitten to my chest, a tiny shivering, mewling ball of wet fur, and the mass of scar tissue slowly building up from all the flea bites around that spot.
I can remember these things. The way My Ex stood holding her cat as we dug the little grave. I remember, it's in my heart as well as my head. The memory is full of sounds and smells and emotions. It's quite unlike all the stories of childhood I tell, which are only the repeated tales of my parents.
In those stories, I assume much about my emotions, or my thoughts. But I do not remember.
I can remember the fleas. I can remember earning JD's friendship and the times we used to hang out back in High School. But I cannot remember ever seeing My Ex smile.
Achingly Defiant complains often that I am too restrained, not impulsive enough for her. She wants a boy who will whisk her away on impromptu road trips, and speak his feelings without fear of consequences. Instead, she has a man who has fallen down those traps far too many times.
I cannot give her all those impulsive things. But I remember what waking up next to her felt like that first morning.
