My mom was a great thrower, she specialized in dirty laundry and fiesta ware ceramic plates. I threw a pillow hard across the room, but pillows are limp. Something that shatters is better.
The white glass vase on the table, that would shatter nicely, but messy to clean up.
Attempting To Buy A Car
The car salesmen had a practiced approach. First, handshakes all around. I hate that. Next, friendly irrelevant conversation. On to invasive personal questions, offers of coffee, hot chocolate, and pointing out the location of the ladies room.
I went along. My husband often suggests to me that life would be easier for me if I could “just go along with it.” Go along to get along. Ok.I’ll try.
The salesman at the 3rd showroom had a face like a plate of boiled potatoes, and his tie was too long. Isn’t the tip of the tie supposed to fall to the middle of the belt?
I pointed to the cobalt blue hatch back I was interested in test driving.
“Take a look at this beauty,” he suggested, indicating a white SUV. “and knock down that sticker price down by $500.00.”
“I am not interested in an SUV.” I replied
“Well then, check this one out, little lady.” He gestured to a silver sedan.
I looked directly at him, ”I want to test the hatch back and I …”
“Oh”, he interrupted me “I can get you a good deal on this one, and it suits you,” he said, pointing to a candy apple red convertible.
He reached for my arm to steer me towards a car that I would never buy. I grabbed my driver’s license, bank check and insurance papers from his puffy hand, turned, and walked out the showroom door.
Ginko and Tequila
Back home, eyeing the glass vase, I didn’t care that it was a gift from Michael. It’s mine, I can do with it what I want. I can smash it, we don’t need it. Who cares?
I force myself up from the couch, out of the living room, and into the kitchen. I have to get away from the vase.
Outside, coatless in the fall evening, sipping tequila, the yellow ginkgo leaves were swirling at at my feet. Gingko leaves drop all at once, the whole tree shedding it’s leaves within a few hours. “Maybe I could shed something?” I wonder. “What could I shed?”
I’d like to get a cold, a bad cold, and go to bed and watch tv. And have my mom bring me tea and toast smothered with butter and strawberry jam. But she’s dead, and I’m an adult. I remember what Desmond Tutu said when he won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984. “The only thing better would be to feel my mother’s arms around me once again.”
Maybe we never shed anything.