As the cat washes herself on the counter her shadow moves in such a way that I think another spider is come hurtling towards me. This house of many movements in the corner of my eye. Invariably in daylight I see a figure walk past the window outside. A repetitive spirit, an imprint on my mind, who knows, but I always see it, I always think the postman’s here. And I notice also, having done this before, that I describe rooms left to right, as if recapitulating the past with words as we used to do with breath in the pagan commune days. To my left, the draining board of pan upside down, wooden spoons washed up, the taps reflect the light and above them a dark lintel, Enlightenment At The Kitchen Sink carved into it. I had it made for all the shamans who sat about telling us how to live while we did the washing up. There are two Ginkgo leaves suspended in a glass hexagon that my friend with the magic hands had made for me. She knows my love of that tree. I’m going to go on a Gingko Biloba planting spree. If anyone asks, that’s what I want for my birthday. There are cactuses on the windowsill, the result of a spate of cactus giving presents; in the space of a week, I received six. I wondered what it said about me. Hanging at the other end is a wooden sign on which I’ve written in pink marker have you locked the dog in the car again because I often did, poor Samson, in my hurry of shopping and children, a car door kicked shut, his forgiving face unseen, a moment much later on, has anyone seen the dog? There is a cork board of hexagons, that shape again, only as I write I notice the echo, on which post it notes remind me of things I want to say. One says S.A.D. Another, make a fool of me. There is a sketch by Sophie done while we were all together here, a montage missing only her; I’ve lodged the origami dragon she made to the top of the collected images so that she is represented, my borrowed daughter who we have embraced. There is a napkin on which she wrote WILL HOOVER DON’T WORRY xx left amongst a mess I have forgotten, a teenage note that made me laugh. Below the cork board, a basket of things where keys, coins, pens collect like sticks in a river, the eddies of this kitchen swirl things into it, a piece of gold leather cut off from my boot, some hand cream, a clip with a mouse on it, a blue glass dropper of face elixir for faces growing old. And there is Samson again, a sketch done by an artist at a literary festival who sat behind us and presented it to me when the show was over. My boy, the way his head rests between his paws, the way his haunches round. It will be a year soon since he died. The curve of his shoulders. That nose.
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I was gonna clean it up yknow 🤓
That basket. Everyone has one. 🥲 Mine still holds the leashes and tags of my boys Bogie and Pete who I lost in ‘14 and ‘15.