And These: Thy Gifts

I’ve got my foot in the front door and she’s squeezing it, trying to get the door shut. This is painful. My shoes are not rigid.

Just talk to me a second, I say.

We’ve got nothing to talk about, she says. She leans on the door. My foot hurts.

All right, you don’t have to talk. Just listen.

I don’t wanna hear anything you have to say, she says.

Okay. Then let’s start with something small, I say. How about not crushing my foot?

She lets go of the door. My foot’s throbbing and I feel like I should have a clod of dirt and a demo vacuum cleaner.

Look. All I’m saying is that once I leave, there’s no turning back, I say. I have 2 days worth of clothes in a backpack over my shoulder.

Okay, she says.

No turning back, I repeat.

She looks at me. Next door a Toyota Camry pulls into the driveway. An elderly lady gets out of the car, sees me. Happy Thanksgiving, she says. I wave.

There’s a point where this becomes a runaway train, I say.

That’s fine, she says. She looks over my shoulder. Curtains are moving in the window of the house across the street.

Once I leave, I begin.

I got it, she says. There’s a stain on the door from a yogurt she threw at me earlier. Inside I can hear my son watching Dora The Explorer.

Are you sure this is what you really want to do? I ask.

Look, I gotta go now. My mom’s coming over in a few minutes.

Okay, I say. But look.

She closes the door. I stand there, looking at it. My neighbor is mowing the same spot on his lawn over and over again. The sun is out. It’s 75 degrees outside.

The door looks at me.

No turning back, I say.