Despite our nearly thirty-three years of marriage, my husband and I are not good for each other. We don’t throw anything away. I tend to re-purpose, but while waiting for functional re-purposing, the stuff has to go someplace. That someplace is not good. I do not open the cellar door. Just imagining the piles of “we might use this someday” stuff, my breathing quickens and my body is stiff unable to move.
On optimistic days I ponder, If I sort through one box a day, by the year 2014 I will be nearly done, I think quietly enough so no one will hear me. If someone hears me, then I will be committed.
This morning my husband retrieved a big floppy hat to protect me from the sun’s rays. I vaguely remember owning the hat, yet I do not remember where I got it, a sure sign that I own too much.
I dream of an empty room, just my own with a few pieces of art for color and pleasure, a winged-back chair, a cot, a bookshelf lined with my favorites, and an easel with some art supplies neatly tucked away. Stark, for the most part. That is only a dream.
Now that brings me to the photo of the teacups. I visited a sweet little Antique shop in Franklin near camp with my daughter. The garden displayed the teacups, chipped but repurposed. I don’t have any teacups. Perhaps I will have to get some.