Mementos

I started packing today.

I don't have much stuff. Necessities, you know. Some dog toys. A coffee maker. My food processor.

Packing tears me up. My lack of stuff reminds me of souvenirs never acquired, of pictures never taken in exotic locations never visited. The few mementos I do have bookend a period in my life from which I consciously have kept no physical reminders. Prison memories I allow to persevere only in my mind.

I guess I don't count the letters from Lo Mei Fok.

Or the one photo I have of Homes and me, his arm around me, touching me only reluctantly. He was a hardened man, but I had just told him how much he had meant to me. Two hours later my sister and Guy would pick me up, and I would taste freedom for the first time in twenty-five years. I look into that almost-free Curt's eyes, and remember the excitement and the anxiety. It is shocking to me that I don't remember who took the picture, or whose camera it was. I treasure that photo. Homes sits there, on my desk, encouraging me to write, reassuring me that I have something to say. Thanks, Homes, always.

Regrette barely knows this place. I wonder if the smells of Stella linger, and Regrette wonders who this bitch was that was in my life--and Warden's--before she came along. I am thankful that Regrette is a relatively calm puppy. Today, I am mellow, and I couldn't take endless crazy puppy action. She is still growing, and growing fast, and I am anticipating the day that her crate will no longer contain her.

I will miss the windows in this apartment. I think now that I haven't looked out them enough. I suppose small windows with mundane views can only be properly valued when one has to live without them. I guess we'll see.

Speaking of Guy, he finally called me, and woke me up in the middle of the night.

"Curt!" he said.

"Cuuurrtt!" he said again, turning it into a two syllable word. I always enjoyed the way he says "Curt" in his French accent, but considering recent events, this morning I was not amused. I figured that a logger doesn't worry about what time zone he is in. A logger does things on his time.

I don't remember what all I said, but I know it was a lot, and I know it was emotional. Basically, I guess it was all just what you guys already know from reading the blog.

"Curt," Guy finally said," I know what's up! I've been reading the blog!"

I hadn't, up until that moment, considered that anybody from my family might be reading this thing. Had I been saying things about Guy that I shouldn't, or about anyone else? Should I take this thing off the interwebs, or maybe stick to just writing about butter?

I guess I don't know. I realized pretty quickly that there is only so much I can say about my butter making. My life is a tough stream to navigate, and I guess it really helps me to "air my dirty laundry" on this blog, so to speak.

"Curt," I remember Guy saying, "that ain't my kid. And what's more, you tell Peggy Waters that she still owes me forty dollars."

I'm not too sure Guy was really concerned about my problems.

Maybe my problems weren't really anything to be concerned about in the first place.