Saturday, January 15, 2011

Holding Up My End of the Deal

Dear Internet,

I'll never forget when I rounded the corner and saw you standing there flipping through the racks of sheets.  It was the prettiest I'd ever seen you.  You looked happy.  Comfortable.  Something that hadn't happened in months.

You smiled when you saw my face.  Said you knew it was me because of the way I walked.  You showed me your freshly painted nails and new wig.  Then made me tell you which ones I thought best matched the curtains.  Would be the softest.  Because you couldn't stand the idea of cheap and scratchy being the last thing you felt.

You laughed and joked.  And told the checkout girl when she complimented your hair, "It's a wig, but Lord knows I paid enough for it I'm calling it my own."  

I remember that day because I was able to briefly forget.  You weren't a woman with cancer.  You weren't dying then.  You were just someone shopping on a random Tuesday in June.  Someone buying toilet paper and dog food.  Like regular people do.

You would have been 57 today.  So, I bought a cake and made some chicken salad.  I'll watch To Gillian on her 37th Birthday tonight.  And I'll whisper to you-Do I tell you enough?  Do I tell you too much?

And I'll wish you were still here so I could tell you at all.  So, I could meet you at Target and pick out new dishes.  Or buy deodorant and shampoo.


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