defining moment

Thursday night D-dog was overcome with excitement and launched himself at my face, knowing no better way to express his happiness than to seize my bottom lip between his teeth and bite it. It bruised and turned blue.

I didn't notice that it was blue until Little J asked me about it two days later.

When I asked Shawn why it was that he'd neglected to mention to me for the last two days that my bottom lip was purple and blue, he looked again at the mark and then said it was because he'd assumed it was wine. Seriously? For two full days? And even at 8:00 in the morning? Do I really drink this much?

I am reassessing.


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After we got back from her husband's gallery opening, I asked C. if she ever cries in her car. I've been trying not to say things like this to her since I moved here. She said no. I was going to say, Me either, when she said, I cry in the shower.

Her older daughter handed me her helium balloon, the ribbon sticky and damp. Make it longer Lisa so I can touch the ceiling, she said. I told her I can't make the ribbon longer, only shorter. Why? I don't know why. I tried to give it back to her but she didn't want it anymore. The string is too short, it's useless, I can't touch the ceiling, I can't do anything. C.'s younger daughter stayed quiet, watching from the car seat, her seatbelt still fastened though we hadn't moved in a long time. The balloon floated up to the ceiling while all four of us watched.

C. has a way of remembering things that everyone else forgets and it's not just because she doesn't drink. Her memory is magical. Sometimes it's inconvenient when you're backpedalling to have someone remember in vivid detail the vehemence with which you asserted things that couldn't possibly be true. She remembers things that are inexplicable. Remember the night you suddenly stood up, jostled everyone's drinks, and folded yourself in half like a gum wrapper and fluttered to the floor so you could lie under the table with the ashes and the shoes? I prefer to forget things that make me look this stupid.

She doesn't, fortunately, expect me to remember anything. She retells me stories about things I experienced, things I did, and I listen with a mild sense of déjà vu.

Though I wish she'd remember less of my idiocy, it's comforting, too, to share a history with someone who doesn't need any explanation. She knows why I did these things, she remembers better than I do. Though I'm frustrated by the deterioration of my memories, I'm glad I've stored them somewhere safe.

She's thinking about leaving her husband.


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After all these years I still sometimes miss smoking very very much.



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