Ginny forgot to wake me up the first time my sister called, and somehow my sister knew because she called again just before she left to be sure. This meant that i had limited time to get ready and to say goodbye to Ginny.
It's been two and a half summers since i met Ginny, moved in with strangers, that's all. But it seems strange that she won't be coming home. And it seems strange that this won't be home for much longer. Anway, we hug, she sniffs, and i go, saying goodbye to the U-Haul that's been at the base of the stairs since Friday evening.
We have breakfast at the Bluebonnet Diner, one of those diner/family restaurant places that real locals go to. We sit at the counter for lack of booth seating and order, and Francis sits next to me.
Francis is on oxygen. Francis is seventy-eight (he showed us his driver's license). Francis comes to the Bluebonnet every day of the week except Tuesday, sometimes twice. He likes all of the waitresses except one. Francis is twice married. He delivered mail when he was in high school, before school. His son died of a heart attack several years ago (he himself has had 3, and his lungs are hardening). Francis got hit by a car when he was 16 and fractured his skull. He wants to know if i've finished high school. His prescriptions are typed on either side of an index card, a formidable list. He told us a lot of stories. I'll forget most of them, no matter how i want to remember.
The thing i won't forget is just one more thing he said..
Life's too short to be a bastard.
...I get home, and it's empty. No U-Haul. No
housemates. No cats. The open can of cat treats sits at the foot of my bed, as she apparently had to
coax Fisher out from underneath it. The back door stands open. On the table is a list of things crossed off,
last minute things not to forget..
kitchen table
2 stereos
CDs
K's table
bed
bikes
litterbox/food bowls
cactus
L's jade
kitchen sink
cats
The rest of the day is a
daze. I realize i have to pack, and tear everything off my walls and out of drawers, off shelves, out of boxes. Letters and photos are sorted halfhearted and lingeringly. Eventually, the house still empty, before the sun has set, my floor still full, the bed cluttered with papers and pens and
miscellany, i fall asleep against the wall, and don't wake up until late morning
the next day.
am i guilty of what i complained of a few days ago?
i'm sorry, i needed to write it out, and don't know where else to write anything anymore..