“Packin’ up the studio, y’all. Time for a change of venue. 30 plus years of parenting, all the detritus, the memories, the wild smoke. What launched, what didn’t, who cared. Why the urgency to locate my broom today, amidst others’ brooms, the old broom, that had touched my family in so many ways. I searched every room in the house, including the basement, taking an in depth tour, until I found it: right where I’d left it in its usual place. Leaning nonchalant, against the stacked wood in the box by the stove. So many weird lines of demarkation to dispel, as well as ghosts no longer needed, who stuck around because you let them. Sweep, always with renewed vigor, to move things along, when in doubt. You’re not the only one begging for change and improvement. Stay open to the possibility. It’s why I agreed to take on the extreme sport of loading too many mattresses into my truck and attempting to drive them to the far off town of Barre, to the recycling dump. For, what else can I call it? Their dumpsters runneth over with what you are no longer enamored of. They try to be kind, and logical, about what’s thrown in. But in reality, the resulting admixture reeks of rejection. I would not want to be tossed overboard like that. And with all the care I took, to check my load, and decide not to strap it, I too thought my decisions extremely logical and well thought out. Nothing seemed to move, the whole way down the first hill. Five, probably more, mattresses, including futons, bedsprings, eco-latex and some permanently stained with horse manure, all piled decorously, Princess and the Pea-wise. Looked pretty good! Yet the most well laid plans are often riddled with blind spots. I guess it was about two miles north of Chelsea village. Made it past where the old farm woman used to carve child-sized oxen. Was even watching my rear view, feeling smug at how well that heavy top layer was holding down all the rest. When it suddenly peeled off onto the asphalt, I can tell you, more than a few things went through my mind. You asshole, to myself. Then, a swift nod to the idea that you don’t leave the scene of an accident or a crime. It doesn’t matter if there’s nowhere to pull off, with snow banks up the wazoo, I guess. You break it, you buy it ... or something like that. I lost it, I am not entitled to leave it for someone else to plow into, like even if it was too heavy for me to pull off the road by myself, maybe I should have ... I dunno. I really don’t. No cell service in this valley. I kept driving, completely convinced I was heading to prison , pulling out at Washington Heights, to text those I was hauling for. Um. I lost something a couple miles north of town. Maybe you should ... call someone? Darn. Life is full of hard, ethical decisions. The guys up at the recycle dump seemed oblivious, for which I was thankful. Hundreds of pounds of construction debris in my cab, didn’t phase anyone. First and foremost, no upholstery was destroyed, despite the smashed tile in trash bags thrown onto the back seat. Can’t express my relief that no one called the cops on me. Later we went back for the mattress. It was my wedding mattress. The one I ordered, because he didn’t like the old bed, and I didn’t like toxic chemically sprayed furniture. So what if it fell out of the truck, once. It didn’t really hurt anybody, except me, and that was my own damn fault. I could say I did my research but, it wasn’t exactly thorough. One of his best friends took me aside before the wedding, with a funny look on his face. He was a man of few words, and could only get out: “He’s hard”. From this, I was supposed to figure something out. Didn’t get it at the time. Got a bunch of other misinformation instead. Now unpacking it all, twenty years later, and doing dump runs on the regular, I feel foolish, but liberated, all the same.”
