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.