The Postscript

The interior of our apartment will set you right back to the 1980s. The Formica countertop has seen better days. I write in a corner of the living room and have exactly six inches between the back of my office chair and the end of the couch. Peter measured our apartment, and it is 400 square feet—and that includes a rather large bedroom.

I love ice cream. I have always loved ice cream. But I have noticed my tendency to eat it until my face goes numb and have avoided it. When I’m in Mexico, I walk by an ice cream shop every night, where I have bought ice cream before. It is good. So almost every night, I get to the ice cream shop, I pause, and I ask myself, “Should I get ice cream tonight?”

I stopped carrying dog treats because I feared that the downtown dogs (or their owners) might not welcome my treats. Maybe they were on a diet (the dogs, I mean). Maybe they had allergies. Maybe they would be suspicious of a strange woman doling out treats.

I was thinking there was really no point in complaining to your husband when you trip on the pavement. It might be your fault, or the fault of the pavement, or the fault of your shoes, but it almost certainly has nothing to do with your husband, and the odds are he is wearing sensible shoes.

When I divorced, one of the hardest things to accept was that I was going to lose this family I had been given in marriage, a family I had grown steadily closer to for more than 22 years. But that turned out not to be the case.

Every evening without fail, the street sweepers are out, sweeping every fleck of confetti and eggshell off the streets, a job that would be tricky under any circumstances, but is made much more difficult because the streets are made of brick and cobblestones.

Like a deeply dysfunctional relationship, my jade plants reward me for forgetting about them, neglecting them, and treating them badly. A near total lack of care and the lowest possible emotional involvement are disproportionately rewarded with growth. The guiltier I feel, the larger they grow.

Yesterday, I went with my mother and father, my aunt, my sister, and four cousins to meet with the funeral director. He was surprised. He had to scout up more chairs. 

It doesn’t sound like a lot. It seems like a pretty simple thing, actually, not a serious job assignment. It doesn’t sound entirely sensible, and it certainly doesn’t sound pragmatic. But I’m going to seek the good because this morning, it suddenly seemed to me that making a practice of seeking the good is a lot harder than it seems. And possibly, it’s more important than it sounds.

There are more books printed every day than anyone could possibly read. I have piles of books I intend to read, and the possibility of ever getting to the bottom of the pile seems remote. I am more than a little aware that there is no shortage of reading material.

I had visions of an endless line of Indian technicians—stretching as far as the eye could see—ready to write pleasant replies to a witless woman in the US. As I exhausted the patience of one technician, another would step into his place, producing an infinite supply of unfailingly polite and utterly incomprehensible technical jargon.  

So Judy sat quietly, and so did I. And no one joined us on that cold winter night. And that is how it has been ever since.

For all the convenience of online communication, nothing can compete with a cup of coffee and a real talk. Because if someone is willing to take the time for a cup of coffee, I think it’s a good sign they would like to be my friend.

I try not to make New Year’s resolutions. All the studies show that motivation wanes by February—if we’re lucky. Changing my life by flipping a switch on December 31st is not a feasible plan.

That night of the winter solstice, when the sun set so early and the dark lasted so long would be a good time to remember the animals who had no way of knowing when the sun would be closer or when the days would be warmer or when the darkness would not last so long.

When I think of presents, I don’t think of stress. I have given my young nephew inappropriately dangerous gifts (what young man does not need a pickaxe?) And I’ve given joke presents (my friend, Andrew, at one time had an impressive collection of shower caps). I love giving presents to pets. I love hearing my mother exclaim, “What on earth…?” as she opens a box.

Usually within hours, my glands will swell, and I’ll have trouble swallowing. By the next day, I have to breathe through my mouth, and I’m going through boxes of tissues. You know the drill. There is nothing unique or interesting about my transformation into a gecko.

I made a total of one quilt, and it took me nine years. I was not, I’m happy to tell you, working on it for nine years. I bought the fabric, cut out the pieces and assembled some of them. Then I stuck them in a box and then let guilt work on me for eight and three-quarter years.

Mama also does other things, things that Felix really does not like. Mama yells when Felix is on the table (Mouse pretends he does not see him). And—worst of all—Mama gets out the nail clippers and cuts Felix’s beautiful curving claws.

I am now in San Miguel de Allende. No one comes to SMA, as folks call it, for spring break. It takes too long to get to, and it is too far from an ocean. This means that the people who are here have plenty of time to come and go and are not particularly interested in beaches. In other words, they are old.