Friday, November 16, 2007
letting go or ... not
We all cling to the past, some parts of it I suppose, and only if we haven’t been bruised so that it’s impossible to look back.
I wallow in the past and often find it incredibly difficult to shake. I hold on to paper, old grocery receipts from the Davis Co-op, ticket stubs to Morrison or Angelou lectures, or that one stub: a Shirley Horn appearance at Yoshi’s, my daughter’s Pre-K report cards, her junior high awards, a photograph of my Dad’s last footsteps in Cayman Island sands my step-mom gave me, my grandmother’s handwritten letters to my daughter and me after our Texas departure to California, the inlay wooden jewelry box from Germany my sister gave me, the wooden tea tray with intimate, sophisticated inlay mother of pearl and vintage Asian coin from Taiwan, the thin solid rose gold band my great grandmother gave me so so long ago, the wooden carved stacked elephants my adopted father made during extended jail time, the tiny glass lady bugs Lori gave me, the unconditional love and godson Tracy gives me, and the Mother’s day cards my daughter gave me on her birthday because she claimed that’s when I really became a mother (still don’t know how she came up with that one – at 7), but some things we must let go. For me it was my run down 11 year old Birkenstocks, old Mac lipstick tubes, an old cooking skillet that was greased with time (my grandmother would say: now it's nice and ‘seasoned’), ripped paperbacks with missing flaps (the pages became more of a distraction than a draw in), a floral pastel sundress because my stomach is fatter and finally, so is my backside (I will miss that dress because I didn’t have to wear a bra), and all of my dated, old plastic Hallmark ornaments. Gone! Gone!
This past weekend, I asked Gera, how he would transport the gravel needed to lay for a deck he is building. After several attempts to first recall how to say “wheelbarrow,” he finally said something not even close. I went ahead and said it for him because it just wasn’t working, sort of like when I attempt to say “refrigerator” or “zhacarracate” in Spanish or when I tell him in the night “volteate porque estas roncando”--turn over because you are snoring.
“No, yeah, I got one, Honey.” He tells me about the wheelbarrow. He pulls it around to show me because I must have looked like I didn't believe him. I didn't. When I see his wheelbarrow, it is whop-sided, rusted, one wheel is larger than the other and to top it all off, it squeaks louder than the kid goats next door. It was time to have the “It’s time to let it go” talk.
I haven't been able to convince him, but I might be able to talk him into using it as a yard flower pot way way way way in the back of our yard.