During the years I wrote and edited, Dear James, I occasionally took a break and wrote essays and short stories: some were reflections on my past; and others, just wanderings of my imagination.
This essay was written about a new beginning.
The Way Home
It is new still, the feel of this old house. My things surround me: geranium placemats arranged on my kitchen table, four-season tapestry pillow displayed on the chair my grandmother left me, seashell collection lining my bathroom shelf. And Linzie is here, softly snoring, snuggled around my feet. New for her too, to be allowed up on the bed, no longer exiled to the cold kitchen floor each evening. He is the one who made that rule, the man I exchanged vows with. The man whose heart is as cold and unyielding as that kitchen floor.
I was careful when I left, to leave the bad behind. I dodged the names as they flew from his mouth, letting them bounce off walls, hang in the air, shatter glass, finally refusing to take them in. I maneuvered around the wounded parts of myself. I was careful not to pack them. The tiny particles of hurt that gathered together into a sharp knife of pain, those were not allowed into the boxes.
When I unpack in my petite new house the air is light and sweet, my movements smooth and unhurried. I decide: the walls will be yellow, the windows open. Linzie will sleep curled upon my bed nuzzled in the soft mattress. In the dark of night I will run my hand over her velvet-soft coat, smell the mustiness of her paws, feel her heartbeat beneath my palm. And my breath will slow, my eyes close.
On the first night I remove my contacts, brush my teeth, lock the doors, and climb into bed. Linzie paces the floor, lets out a small whine, and heads for the kitchen. My voice stops her, “No girl, no more kitchen. Come here.” She turns around. Her eyes glow in the darkness.
I keep trying. “Come here girl, it’s ok.” Tentatively she walks into the bedroom stopping at the foot of the bed. I pat the empty space beside me and say, “Up!” The look she gives me is human; it says, Have you lost your mind? I almost laugh. We compromise; she circles first and then finally curls up in the open bedroom doorway.
When I wake the doorway is empty. I find her in the kitchen curled up in the corner. Beside her nose is my shoe, a habit she’s had for years, carefully carrying only one shoe, placing it near her while she sleeps, her version of a security blanket.
At times I find her habit endearing, my scent close as she sleeps. Other times, when I’m late for work, going room to room searching for the missing shoe, I am greatly annoyed.
But today, as I look for my missing tennis shoe, I feel unruffled. I plant a lilac bush beside my bedroom window. The breeze will bring the delicate scent across my face each morning. Linzie does her part assisting with the digging, and then lays panting in the shade.
That night, when I turn out the lights, Linzie again heads toward the kitchen. I call her; she comes quickly and places her nose on the bed. I pat the space beside me. She curls up on the floor at the end of the bed—progress.
In the morning I again find her in the kitchen asleep on the floor. I spend the day clearing dead leaves and debris off the tattered stone patio. I haul out two chairs along with a small table from the basement and arrange them on the patio. I sit in the sunshine, sip a glass of iced tea, toss the ball for Linzie, and watch the setting sun turn her coat into an explosion of golden color.
I change the routine. I leave my bedside light on and pat the bed urging Linzie to jump up. She tilts her head, really? she says and places her front paws on the bed. I pat again, encouraging, “Good girl, up.” She hops up and stands on the bed stiff as a statue. “Lay down girl, it’s ok,” my voice croons.
It doesn’t work. She jumps down and curls up on the floor next to the bed. I reach down and scratch her ears. I run my fingers through the silky tuft below her throat—we drift off.
The alarm wakes me; my feet slide off the bed and land in the soft mat of Linzie’s belly. She lifts her head, a good-morning-smile on her face.
We take a short morning run before work. My feet gently slap the road; Linzie huffs beside me, her breath warm on my leg. I lose myself in the rhythm. Pleasantly spent, we arrive home; the gate squeaks as we pass through. I sip my coffee; Linzie eats her kibble. I perform the lost shoe dance, finding it behind the bathroom door and leave for work.
When I return home Linzie greets me with my one of my favorite sandals between her teeth. I wash the kitchen windows as the last rays of amber light warm my face. Before bed I open the last box and remove the silver-framed photos. I arrange them just so. I turn off the lights and try yet again, patting the open space on the bed beside me, “Come on girl, up, up on the bed.” She hesitates only slightly before leaping up. She circles, once, twice, then with a sigh curls up around my feet. I release my breath—a sigh of relief and gratitude.
I awaken before the alarm and stretch. Linzie opens her eyes and belly-walks her way across the mattress. She lays her nose on my pillow and licks my cheek.
We are home.