The last few weeks have quite frankly whipped my butt.
Two weeks ago, the eight-month old kitten whom I had just adopted managed to wrench an upper-floor screen out of its window in the middle of the night and jump ten feet into the park where I live. My eyes popped open. I lay in the deathly silence, contemplating what I had heard. The stream of cold air drew me to the loft, where the sight of a one-foot square opening to darkness plunged my stomach into nausea. I scrambled outside, barefoot, calling. My flashlight relieved the fear of finding her small broken body but she has not returned. Neighbors have searched. I put out tuna, kindly provided by a friend from her personal stash. Nothing. I heard mewing a few times but it might have been a small bird in an overhead tree.
In the meantime, I pushed to get ready for the Holiday Market here, the last Sunday Market for the 2021 season. I serve as the manager. I’m not convinced that I do the job well; I struggle with time management. I forget to purchase supplies. I make too many promises and add too many vendors with similar product. But with the immeasurably valuable help of a few volunteers, especially the tuna lady, we got it done. The rain held until evening. Only one vendor failed to appear and we needed that extra few feet anyway. Crowds came; and everyone asked to return to the roster next year.
I’ll be alone this Christmas. It’s hard to admit. My sister just came; and my son, a grown man at 30, has other plans. I spent a few weeks collecting small gifts for each of them. I don’t exchange presents with anyone else in the family. But for my son Patrick and my sister Joyce, I plan and ponder and collect until I hit upon the right balance of symbolism, usefulness, and beauty. I got everything packaged and off to the post office with more assistance from another kind soul.
On the evening that I shipped their boxes, I came home tired, hungry, and a little bit sad. I distracted myself with pasta. As I tried to force open a jar of sauce, I reached into the silverware drawer for my little gizmo and then stood, staring, at the device in my hand.
I remembered when my son gave it to me.
We spent a lot of time at garage sales in his childhood. I’d get him from his preschool early on a Friday, in spring or summer. On the way home, I’d watch for signs and pull to the side of the road. I’d swing him out of his car seat, and tell him, hold my hand. Then we’d walk up the driveway and start to rummage in the boxes and on the tables. We’d smile at the homeowner. Patrick would start looking for toys, or books, or bikes.
On one such occasion, my son, then four or five, came over and tugged at my sleeve. He raised his hand to show me something he’d found. The lady says it opens jars, he announced. Your hands don’t work very well. I’m going to buy it for you. The lady says it’s fifty cents. I gave him two quarters and watched him walk back to the paying station. He clutched the gadget against his chest all the way home.
We spent about a half an hour opening every jar in the kitchen. He never noticed the tears gathering in my eyes. I kept wiping them away. If he had asked, I would have explained that sometimes joy spills out and trickles down our faces when we least expect it.
It’s the sixteenth day of the ninety-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
