I handle wet clumps of laundry, tugging them from the resisting metal ring. I fold wrinkled piles of sheets, crinkled pillowcases. I clean the kitty litter, wiping away stinky streaks of yellow, sweeping stray pieces of sand. I chop olives, tomatoes, and parsley, boil water for pasta. Each small chore that will have to be redone over and over. I stand tired in the kitchen, and my mind strays 2,000 miles away. An airstream trailer reflecting the light of the full moon over a stretch of New Mexico night. A room so small in a quiet place. These years, I have learned how to take care of me. How often I need to clean to survive, to be comfortable. How to cook just enough for one, how to pack it all up and begin again every year or so. I am so afraid that I will lose this new, that by breaking the pattern I will break something, that I’m not good enough for this and that’s why I was alone for so long. I want this shared space, this man at my side. I just don’t know how to keep the airstream dream alive.
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2 comments:
Ohh, are you really in an Airstream with a sexy man, or is this an awesome euphemism for something else entirely? (with you Englishy creativey people, ya never know).
Beautiful little post.
I'm actually in an apartment in Brooklyn with the man... the Airstream dream is a sort of metaphor for all those things that one wants to do on one's own (in my case, live in an Airstream trailer in the desert and write). I guess it's about compromise, how to keep those things in life while sharing your life with someone else.
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