Remnants

Photo by Dave Webb on Unsplash

I open the door, and two wet tongues and the clattering of eight paws on the wooden floor greet me. “Down, Jake,” I say to the massive golden retriever. I bend over to greet Lashes, a terrier mix no bigger than a minute, but with the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. They are a funny pair, one big red dog, and one tiny red dog, but they are both full of love.

“How are the redheaded twins today? Come on, let’s go outside.” I lead them to the patio door, Jake bounding by my side, bumping me, and Lashes scurrying to keep up. I let them out to handle their doggie business while I check their food and water dishes. Turning, I head for the kitchen, but the sight of furniture and boxes piled high stops me short.

This is her stuff. I move closer and peer inside an open box. Shoes. Moccasins, sneakers, pumps, and some sexy black stripper heels adorned with diamond sequins. I wonder what size shoe she wears. I go for the sexy black shoes and pull one from the box. I set it down, toe off my sneaker, and slide my foot into the silky depths. It fits as if it were made for me. Damn. I shake off her shoe and toss it back into the box. Focus, girl. Feed the dogs and then get out of here.

On the way to the kitchen, I pass their closed bedroom door. Before I can stop myself, I’m inside. I stare at their bed, covered by our old comforter. I trace my fingers over the delicate blue flower pattern. Why am I doing this? We’re five years post-divorce. We are good friends and co-parents — which includes pet care while one of us is out of town. I’m happy that he has found someone special. I’m over the moon in love with my live-in boyfriend. Still, that comforter haunts. Wouldn’t she be furious if she knew she was sleeping beneath the remnants of our tattered marriage?

I move to the bathroom. One of our old towels hangs next to her newer towel. Her stuff lay scattered on the counter, mixed in with his. The sinks are dirty. Dried toothpaste. Razor stubble. This is stupid. An invasion of their privacy. Get out.

I hear the thoughts in my mind, but my body moves of its own accord deeper into her territory — the master closet. More shoes litter the floor. Her clothes hang next to his in neat rows. He kept a messy closet during our marriage, but she must be keeping this clean…taking care of him in ways I did not.

I turn to leave, but spy a lacy cream-colored bra draped on the nightstand and wonder what size she wears. Don’t do it, my mind screams even as I pick up the flimsy garment and read the tag. 38D. Great. We may share a shoe size, but she has me beat in the boob department. I replace the bra and exit the bedroom.

I make it into the kitchen and come upon one of our old cook pots hanging on a chain over the island. I had wondered where that pot had gone. It never occurred to me that he might take it. He knew it was my favorite pot, a wedding gift from my beloved aunt. How many stews or batches of spaghetti had we made in that pot over the years? What delectables had they made in it these years hence? I trace my fingers over the browned bottom. It sways on its chain, sounding like a bell tolling in the distance. ‘It tolls for thee,’ or for another lost marriage. John Donne’s words haunt my mind.

Time to go. I check the dog food and water and then let them inside. They race me to the door, but I win. My motivation to escape is higher than theirs. I lock up their house and my ghostly memories and head to my home where our old towels hang next to my boyfriend’s towels. Where our old memories sit stacked in the garage next to my boyfriend’s dusty boxes. Where my boyfriend and my new life drapes in neat folds over the echoes of our past.

It seems we cannot escape the remnants. Perhaps we shouldn’t want to. Those remnants are the threads in the tapestry of our lives. To pluck at the loose bits might unravel it all. Instead, I will darn the frayed edges and weave new patterns on my proverbial loom. In the end, I will look back and bask in a well-lived, well-loved life.