“She’s Packing Her Things”
She’s packing her things, chewing on words about years wasted and spitting out incoherent insults. Books and socks and sex toys and what appears to be half a sandwich take her abuses like stoic soldiers, claiming their new positions within the damp cardboard box she found in the basement. When we first moved in, she meticulously arranged our smiling photograph faces on the blank face of the refrigerator. She’s tearing them all in half now, pocketing all of her faces and replacing the torn halves of me back under the magnets.
With each load she puts into the backseat of her rusted out Honda I feel heavier. The final black trash bag is lumpy with half the contents of the silverware drawer mixed with her china doll collection wrapped in our shower curtain. When she heaves it over her shoulder I can’t help but remember last Christmas when we spent the day getting stoned while we watched the snow fall during the commercial breaks of the Christmas Vacation marathon. She gave me a book of Goethe poetry and cried softly when she opened the complete DVD collection of The Simpsons I splurged on.
She kicks the cat out of the way as she slams the door. I don’t understand why.
She loved that cat.