My apartment has an increased sense of quiet. A little frightening at the end of a day filled with human contact. Brad had texted first thing about my new housing application. That ended with shared humor about a strict agency rule. No white-out. I called my supervisor at the district and followed up with an email.
Shawn answered my invitation and we set Monday for lunch. Assuring a cute waiter was ventured. We both LOL-ed. I suggested we avoid the rush by arriving early. “Will we look too desperate?” Shawn is that kind of friend. “Wearing leather?” I answered. We painted an outrageous scene and, in the process, began the fun of meeting up.
I went to the gym. Played a quiz game with Linda while pumping the stationary bike. Sang to myself on the floor mat core conditioning.
Friendly chiropractor visit, stop at Sprouts remembering Ty, the trainer’s, assignment to get protein supplement. A call to Amy getting news about her work and the baby.
All revolving around a 2 pm appointment with Teresa my therapist. I had intentionally set aside the session to talk about Karen. Karen, who had mailed two envelopes for my birthday. I had waited until the day after to open what appeared to be her traditional thoughtful card with its enclosures. After skimming “To my brother from your sister,” I unfolded 8½x11 sheets. Preprinted stationery for the top one added a touch of warmth to her stenography. She had carefully composed her message, an official-sounding tribute to my whole life actually. She painted me accomplished and successful, contributing richness to her endeavors and others’ around me, pleasing to our dead parents, and faithful to the Church despite challenges. So complimentary but, as I read, I grew increasingly agitated. I didn’t mind her observations about what I had intentionally shared with her. But much of this profile was based on her assumptions or evidence of trolling. (I had declined two friend requests from her on Facebook years ago.)
The plain-paper underneath responded to my email. She had read and considered it. But my take on her motive was not only false but unkind, she said. This page was also signed with “love.”
A handwritten note tucked into a smaller envelope reported her progress with listening and not dominating conversation, her interpretation of what my email called for.
Teresa read these out loud at my request. She paused a few times to say Karen had made a valid point or that she agreed. I voiced my biggest objection to Karen appropriating Scott, son who died as a toddler 38 years ago, as one of the parties who agree with her. I pointed to the irony of Karen invalidating my ability to read her motives while confidently assembling a definitive dossier on me.
This discussion took most of the time but there were other things to talk about. Parties bringing me together with family and amazing friends. Expressions of love. A friend’s three-night stay. Abundance. Gratitude.
The hour came to an end. I looked at the Karen packet reassembled on the table beside me. “Can I leave these with you?” I asked acting on what felt right at that moment. But quite uncharacteristic of my diligent collecting. Teresa had a file.
Later, at home, late-May daylight has waned. The street quiet. The upstairs neighbors, Kevin and April, have all but stopped their moving.
Why all this empty air?, I think, fearing a little that I felt alone. I get ready for bed and realize I don’t mind this extra expanse for sending thoughts into summer or reaching toward Heaven. I straighten the covers and slide beneath them. I have stopped arguing with Karen in my head.
Find what’s yours . . . truly.
copyright 2019 Dan Christensen
Diamonds in the Dumpster 