a little

I miss some of my stuff. I feel a dull ache just below my right floating rib where I leaned into my computer keyboard and where my belly TV hummed me to sleep. I suddenly became wildly minimalist when I no longer worked. One would be amazed by what is needed as accessories for work, but not in retirement: hairspray, earrings, deodorant, hosiery, and the various corsets assigned to women.
A bit of anti-retail therapy, I could not stop the adrenaline of clearing my personal space. I have had a dozen garage sales out of desperation, determination, and foreboding. I worked the other side of the retail counter, a sinister sensation that wearied me.
All went for pennies to the pound: dining tables, couches, pictures, books, lamps. Lifetime memories for a quarter, a pence, a shilling. The leather sofa lives one mile south, my beloved kitties five. My cherished Ford Ranger sits anointed with dusty ash at the Toyota Dealership. Only the prized shredder survived, a fireplace, sizzling credit cards and paid bills to crisscross dust.
The house rings with minimalism, echoing into brick walls. Clothes, unfolded, tossed into big wicker baskets. Dressers and armoires long ago trucked to another cluttered home. My socks don’t exactly match; I have 3 pairs of shoes not 12. My belongings are packed in a duffel bag as if for a disaster evacuation. I cut my hair myself with cuticle scissors. I wear the same sweatshirt and muumuu every day. The dog searches for his cedar bed and Igloo house, eyes indignant.
I feel emptied, too.
Like love, it is lovely and lonely. No dusting. No bitter memories from framed pictures past nor reminiscences sweet. I can scarcely think of one single missing knick knack, knit pantsuit, bracelet, lamp, or rug I once valued. Piles of fallen leaves, lost in the mulch of affluence where I once rolled. The fridge and canned food cupboards do seem somewhat bare at times. A shopping trip looms, a blackening cloud on a perfect day.
My house glistens with fresh Sherwin Williams latex but without plants or paintings. Walls stare blankly. The mocha crème hues must speak for themselves, whispering of Santa Fe bluffs and freedom on a dusky mesa. Plates and glasses are a little slim; there are only two chairs at the tiny pine table, and no television. Spare beds, spare blankets, sparse.
There’s an ache, though, where I allowed myself to rest against my computer keyboard. Sometimes, when the lonely north winds screech, I swear someone is beckoning and more often, in the distance, I hear kittens crying.


  1. I feel your pain, understand the whole scenario, but most of all I know that desparation, depression, and lack of direction. But go forth knowing that you have touched the lives of others, given them direction, and by doing that you are a winner. Thank you for putting such feeling into the heart of a woman.

  2. I guess, the items I have left are extraordinary in that I love them profoundly. Rather than a lot of things I liked a little. Lots easier to dust in this incredibly windy and dusty plain. I am content with a little emptiness. I fill it with words.

  3. This one breaks my heart… partly because I am ridiculously attached to my Things. They tell the story of my life; they reflect my heart, my inner existence. It doesn’t sound like becoming a super-minimalist is making you feel better — only more “without.” Or maybe that’s how you feel on the inside anyway… Extremely moving prose! ***mcb***

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