lafemmegigi

My Side

~a piece of autobiographical prose written for a competition. Word count: 497

Rules: Prose, 500 words or less, describing one's bedroom.

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Its not Our Room anymore. Youre night sound and night weight dont depress me dont move my bed when I sleep. My cats, which youre allergic to, sleep on the Memory Foam pillow you never liked. Your dog, which used to sleep in our daughters room, now sleeps on my new rug by your side of the bed. My dog now sleeps under one of the corner windows, brushing the linen curtain aside as she slumps to the floor, staining it more deeply every time and holding it open so streetlight invariably shines on my eyes when I turn in sleep. Dallas, git Lay down.

You always wanted more light in that room. After you left I painted over that dark green you liked so much. Its Wedgwood blue now, and so much brighter, yet its just one more effort youll never appreciate.

Try as I can, memories wont rearrange away. I pulled one of the matching armchairs from the living room into the corner of the bedroom. I brought the ottoman in, too. As I carried them I remembered how surprised I was they all fit into our car at the same time. I remember how I bought them by myself at the furniture store along with the couch. You gave me creative freedom to choose the pieces since you didnt care about that, but promised your muscle and the truck if I found something good.

I couldnt believe all of those pieces fit in My Car. The salesman was very nice to hold the clearance couch for the afternoon while I tried to find you.

The chair, the ottoman, and the two pink Carnival Glass sconces I found at the thrift store (which offended your sensibilities so horribly) make for a nice writing nook. I wish I had more time to enjoy it, but the solo refi and the divorce papers are demanding mistresses. I remember with acrid clarity how both of your mistresses, both from the same bar, were named Lisa. A name so common, and in such contrast to my own. Such a parallel to what you wished I could have been. I remember when you respected my individuality, and held me up to your friends with such pride. Shes a drummer, too! Look at these guns!

Now I stand in front of my Grandmas vanity the piece you and I drove across the country to get last summer and I see how Ive softened. You said: Maybe Im nave. Nobody told me a womans body went downhill after thirty. In the middle of the night I still curse every time I stub my toes on those damned dumbbells you bought me.

As I look out the dog window watching you drive away on your weekends with our daughter, I think how nothing has really changed, except the pattern and tone of things. I still do the same things I always did. I just dont feel the same weight around here.




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Based on comments I see, I'd like to make sure everyone knows that this piece was difficult to write, yes, but rewarding. The weight being lifted is a good thing. The past is no longer a loss with regret, but a 'catch and release' meditation now. The fact is, I have come to notice that everything I did is everything I do, but with less pressure. I don't expect anyone else to 'not help'. It's actually nice. Another poet, a friend of mine, recently wrote a much more compressed poem that sums this feeling up:

"Was
is all
there is
anymore."



for r.b.
1935 - 1984

~john.johndoe



I hope you all understand.