I have a mother hibernating in the back of my fridge. Ah, these eccentricities one doesn’t notice until a stranger plans to stay in the house. “Dear C, the jar contains a scoby” (for the kambucha I keep making that nobody drinks) “It isn’t moldy soup.”
What are the daily things we do that she should know about?
“Dear C, please place the garbage cans like a barrier across the deck stairs so the f’ing deer don’t come down and eat all my flowers.”
What will she expect that we don’t have? “We have a pizzelle press but not a single window has curtains or blinds. We have a pin vise hand drill but no TV.”
and then the notes I will not write:
“Feel free to use the BB gun under the bed to shoot at the rats from the balcony when they come into the chicken coop at night. You can do this in your underwear if you like, according to my husband, the neighbours don’t mind.”
“Please don’t use any articles in the right-hand nightstand drawer. In fact, please don’t even open it. In fact, I should have put that stuff away.”
“Please drink the entire bottle of Mexican Xtabentún, it’s been there for twelve years. We don’t even know how it got there. It might be a portal into another universe.”
I do all the usual things before a big trip. Renewed the insurance. Cleaned the windows. Went to the dentist. It was painful. I hadn’t been for a while. The accusations:
“What are you doing to your back left molar?”
“Sorry, what do you mean?”
“Well, it looks like you’re grinding your teeth like a pestle and mortar. It has a crack now.”
“What caused that?”
“You. Or – age.”
“You can’t charge me this much money and give me that kind of answer” (a note not spoken)
“We’ll have to cap it when you come home. try not to chew on it. Because once it breaks, that’s it. It’s gone.” Unhelpful clarification added: “You’ll have a mouth full of empty spaces.”
They offer me a travel sized floss.
In the rain, I plant my garden in hopes something will grow while I’m gone. I tuck in a bunch of annuals to cheer up our ugly front deck. In the morning, I open the door and it’s hailed so hard, it’s piled up like tapioca snow. My petunias are torn to shreds. My tree peony has shed its white petals. Snap dragon heads lie agape, decapitated.
I pet my sweet yellow dog. She is utterly relaxed, splayed out on her back. She has no idea I’m going for a month and some stranger is coming. She can’t tell a flower from a weed and probably never thinks about her teeth falling out. This is why she is soooooooooooooooo happy.
It’s hard to be away. Hummingbirds will come. I’ll miss the lilies and poppies. My pillow is so soft. But I’m excited to meet up with Nora in Amsterdam and see Michael’s sister and the nephews and pop in to see Rick and Silvia. Van Gogh. Vondelpark. Brouwersgracht. I’ll chew stroopwafels on my right side and remind myself that petunias continue to flower and, like the mother in the back of my fridge, I can slow down production for a while.
