“I’ve needed envelopes to send out thank you notes, so I drive to my storage unit. It’s a relief to discover that in those late days of my homelessness, I was still able to execute good labeling. I find the plastic tub of stationary almost immediately & get a bit nostalgic, knowing that one day, this 12’ x 12’ cube of metal will no longer be rented by me or hold my life’s story. It’s been a good place to tweet from, as in: “havin’ fun at unit 61”. The rhyme’s helped me remember where to find my stuff. Otherwise, frankly, they all look the same. It’s hard not to feel generic, in a facility surrounded by chain link. We get pushed to the edge of what we can tolerate, at times. I’ve had countless run-ins with this kind of displacement, run-ins that tell me the struggle isn’t stacked in my favor, & never will be. Yet, I’ve been able to hitch many rides. That’s right: I’ve always wormed my way into safety zones, until I was abandoned or kicked out. Like so many girls who never had the protection of a father, I’m half orphan now, half renegade opportunist, half dog, with a dollop of that scavenger, raven. At dawn, the early morning light plays with shadows on my aging face, and feral cat friend Carl bounds forward, purring, allowing me to lead our descent down the hill, his pleasure at my leadership, extravagantly on display. How I love the companionable, unspoken agreements between animals! And that trust, that allows healing, without fuss or experts. The deaths, the births, the present moment that transcends all tragedy. Which leads me to my confession. The low point of my week, the shame. I can hardly summon the words to tell, but it’s better to blurt such things out. I killed a toad, by accident. None-the-less, it was graphic and shocking to me, and his one, fully cognizant eye will forever haunt me. My shovel was intent upon one thing only: to cut the turf, evidently unaware of his hibernation - but why didn’t he jump? It would have ended so much better. Never before have I so longed for the pastoral fields of gold, to roam, and repent and hide in, that all such murders might be healed & remade into kindness. At day’s end, driving the opposite way to avoid the chatty woman on the road with her dog, I made up things for myself to do. An extra pound of butter, a six pack, a newspaper. The loneliest store in Vermont was a fitting place to land. Parking along the highway, across from the pumps, I was dirty and limping. That must be a sight. My holster stayed fixed to my pants, pruner handles protruding, as I shoved a few bills in my pocket. The magical mountain at my shoulder, its all day shrouds of rags darkening, looming, comfortably thickening, all the while pressing my mood deeper into remorse and philosophical crisis. Collecting my items from their refrigerated cases, pressing them to my chest, wandering around aimless as if there was something else, I finally made my way to the register, thankful to be tolerated. The owner of the rural store, her smile meant the world to me. It did not bring back the toad, who died slowly in a hunk of effervescent grass, but it told me the world goes on. And that I was still hungering, and in it, as far as she could tell.”
