Paper Dolls

Photo by Allison Brady

Single gal searching for single family home. Maybe I am just kidding myself, maybe I will just jump, but I am looking for a house. To buy. And that is a strange thing for one to do when one feels transitional. Perhaps the thinking is that this will settle me. So here I am trying to imagine what my life will be like five years from now, not even knowing what the summer will bring. And here I am amidst all the other buyers: couples, couples with kids, couples with babies, retirees. And here I am looking at the staged rooms: one staged as the nursery, or one as the home office, or one as a way-too-large dining room. I try to picture myself in each of these scenarios. OK, the home office is an easy one. But as I walk through the garden, take a tour of the garage-cum-woodworking shop, step through the gourmand's kitchen, I feel like a paper doll trying on her different outfits. And underneath it all, barely covered by my cardboard cut-outs, nothing but my knickers.

The Wolf

Still from the film, Wendy and Lucy

In my dream the wolf is feriocious and attacking. He is also domesticated, but just, not by me. He belongs to downstairs' neighbor and one day the neighbor leaves his the chain link fence open. in his prowling way, the wolf begins hunting me down. As I climb the stairs to the front door of my house, I drop the heavy book I am conveniently holding. Whether this is an accident or in self-defense I am not sure. The book hits the wolf squarely on the front leg, breaking it and causing him to fall back immediately. I suddenly feel horrible. The wolf licks his legs and I know instinctively that he must be moved, that he needs medical attention, that I must help the wolf. The fear I have of the wolf and getting near him is equal to the compassion I have for the pain I have caused him. I step toward the wolf, whose lips and sharp teeth are now covered in blood. I must befriend the wolf, I must make him trust me, and I must keep him from attacking me. The wolf whimpers as I approach, frantically licking his leg, his mouth in a snarl. All I see are teeth, bloody teeth. I touch the wolf and he does not bite. I begin to scoop him up and awaken. It only takes a few seconds for me to realize that I have just had a thinly-veiled dream about my last relationship.

Slip

Irina Rozovsky "Untitled"

Change. Transition. Adaptation. It has a been a slow process, his collecting of items, our official parting of ways. First a couple pans, a few days later the toaster, and then with what this morning has seemed liked startling finality, the coffee-maker. Meanwhile the few boxes of books, tchotchkes and the other more historical items remain left behind in stacked boxes. And the other stuff, the stuff no one wants, those items of ownership in between his and mine, those remain, well, exactly where we left them. The plants he never watered, now islands on the surface of his empty desk. The wool sweater my mom gave for Christmas, an abandoned figure on that side of the closet. A pair of scissors jutting up like Jaws from a hastily emptied drawer. One half of a pair of slippers peeking out from under the bed.

And so here I am. Reclaiming my space, puzzling my self, back together, piece by piece. And even though I nudge that slipper back under the bed every time I see it, it must be the dog that faithfully returns it bedside each night. Spring is just around the corner.