I thought it would be best to divorce myself from the part of me I had left behind. I had no use of it now. It’s better not to feel after being knocked about and battered for so long. Losing a part of yourself becomes commonplace.
I think about this as I’m being pushed, yet again, into something that I don’t want to do. Forced into places where I don’t want to go or have any business seeing.
I hate being so passive.
But this time, I will change. I can make a statement that it will be in everyone’s best interest to either take care of me—or leave me alone.
My movements will be small, subtle. Little steps, if you like. I will even leave a trail so everyone can see who is to blame. I will make known exactly where I’m coming from and where I’m going to…but I will not get caught.
So, I let myself get shoved, tossed, yanked—ripped—while I caress the legs of a table, the bottom of the container with the potted palm. I let myself be abused just so someone will come along, discover me, and make me whole again.
Someone needs to take care of me.
I’m gliding across the foyer now, in front of the door and around the bottom of the other potted palm, tying it together with its twin.
But the silly kitten isn’t done with me yet. It insists on picking me up in its mouth and carrying me farther down the hall, away from the front door.
But I don’t mind. I know it’s time for that door to swing open and for her to come home.
Then, as if on cue, she appears, shopping bags in hand. Her left foot snags on the part of me I left behind, and down she goes, followed by the groceries and the two potted palms until she looks like a lost explorer struggling out of the jungle bush.
I allow myself to unravel a bit more, a release of pleasure, if you will.
Time to clean house, bitch. And to put me back in the knitting basket where I belong.
© 2015 Jayne Marlowe, Moonstone Press