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Dangerous Compassions

when we leave here

when we leave here

When we leave here, will there be a ceremony to put the crucifixes back up on the walls?  “Oh look, I found another one, stuffed into this desk drawer!” a happy Catholic exclaims.

When we leave here, will the neighbors be confused there’s no one singing in German at three in the morning?  No more arguments about nuances of word meanings?  No more trip hop, glitch hop dance music pouring out of our house with the lights off, as I dance for my life?

When we leave here, will the garden die?  Will others take it over?  Which plants will they favor and help live?  I hope the trees we planted grow, flourish, and give pears one day.

grief

I guess this is pre-grieving–I’m grieving the loss of this place, while we’re still here.  Imagining others grieving the loss of us.  It helps, to pop in and out of different perspectives.

Maybe I’ll talk to the person who lived here before and ask if he noticed the moon rise, when it’s full, from that bedroom window.  Lying in bed and noticing the moon rise has been a great joy of living here.  It’s bright enough to shine through the thin curtain.  I think the previous occupant had the same curtains when he lived here.

He used to go up on the roof and watch sunsets, drinking beer.  I never have been on the roof, but I’ve seen a lot of sunrises in this neighborhood, mostly on walks and trike rides.

We’re planning to take down the weird blue asura painting in the bathroom and have it large format color copied at our favorite printshop in town.  Or maybe we should just abscond with it.  I don’t think anyone would care.

It’s the best bathroom art ever, to stare at on a daily basis as I sit on the toilet.  Thank you, to the artist and whoever put it there.

love

I can love a person, a thing, a place.  Truly I love this place.  Ming first brought me to Bartlett Ave ten years ago, and we fell in love on the Sacred Peace Walk.  What bliss I felt here.  That was the back house.

We walked a lot, and shared long hugs in the driveway saying goodnight, until the hugs got so long, we were overjoyed and wanted to be together.  We didn’t want to let go.

This summer we will have a new home.  I keep telling myself–it’s real.  How could we leave here?

Deserts are not for me.  I would be endangering myself, to try to live through another desert summer.  So we have to go.  But I love it here.

And I love change, and I love the ocean.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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