Not In My Old Kentucky Home

 

            It felt like any other day. My overall mood was optimistic. As I washed the potatoes, my attention shifted appropriately between the task, background music, and a subplot I had been tossing around for a character in a novel I had neglected for too long - interrupted by a flash of panic that my mammogram was due, and I hadn’t scheduled an appointment. I would peel the potatoes, put them on the stove, then consult the calendar in my purse regarding the mammogram question and make the appointment if necessary.

            When I opened the drawer by the stove, the mammogram completely escaped my mind. There, in the space where I expected to find my white-handled paring knife, I discovered an empty space. For six years, since my niece had broken the handle on my yellow knife and replaced it with the white version, I had kept that knife in the same space – right, front corner of the drawer beside the stove.

             Convinced that I must have accidentally left the knife in the dishwasher, I inhaled a calming breath and opened the door. An empty silverware basket greeted me. I removed the bottom rack, searched the bottom of the washer, and faced the frightening truth; someone had stolen my paring knife. Why?

            Three depressing days and countless tears later, I turned the house inside out looking for the metal three-hole punch. Not only did I need to punch holes in the story I printed, I had placed sentimental value on the tool since I had purchased it with a gift card the kids gave me for my birthday. The search turned up neither the hole punch nor the paring knife. Although there was a slight chance my memory failed on the third item, I was reasonably sure I was also missing an unopened package of Emory boards from the linen closet.

            Is it possible that socks aren’t the only things that just disappear into thin air?

           

Nightmares in my Heart

Any time my eyes close for longer than a blink, I dream. Cat naps, Rip-Van-Winkle marathons, and everything between produce action-packed, Netflix™-worthy, private, subconscious drama. I remember most of my dreams, often in great, although confusing, detail.

            People I have known forever trade names and faces in my dreams. Dead people come to life; sometimes, healthy friends or family members do not survive my imagination. My dream weaver ignores time, placing a young and an old me in different scenes of the same dream, while other cast members maintain a consistent age. In a non-kinky sense, couples switch partners in my dreams.

            Most of the time, I understand which of my recent thoughts or events caused a dream, and I know the moral of the story. Usually, I enjoy and/or appreciate my dreams.

            I worked out a deal with the impish part of my psyche. During early stages of loss, when it can’t resist reconnecting emotions if I drop my guard, I will stay awake until I am too exhausted to dream. Never again will I cry myself to sleep, allow the imp to convince me that my father is still alive, or that I’ll roll over to face a man who is long gone, only to open my eyes and face the truth anew. Never.

Despite what the psyche might think, a heart should not break multiple times for the same loss.

 

 

 

 

           

 

Link Fuckery

Do you ever wonder what’s behind the multiple clicks that many games force you to make before you get to the game you want to play? I do. And it bothers me. What if I am being manipulated into clicking something horrible, like support for neo-Nazis? Or asking to be bombarded with ads for things I don’t like?