Cue the Strings
If you could go back to a pivotal point, that moment before everything branched into different directions, according to string theory, and you sent a whole universe to be the YES to your NO…where would you go?
Joni Mitchell is sitting in a Café in Paris, France singing about going home, home to California.
That’s where I am, back home on my front porch steps and she is on the stereo loud enough for the birds to sing along if they want to. The sun is peeking through leaves of the widow maker outside the fence, one of the biggest eucalyptus trees in Carlsbad. The fog has lifted, the breeze is warm and honeysuckle blossoms from across the street are bringing on a case of spring fever. This is that dreamy time, that in between time, something big is coming I can feel it but it’s still off shore, beyond the horizon, and I can sit out here with the flowers and my piece of blue sky and right now I am happy.
My boys are asleep on the lawn, both off in feet twitching dreamland. They’ve already played their Indy 500 game racing around the house. Moose, the Dobie Shepherd is the younger and he lets Jake, the Doberman win just enough times that he’ll still play the game. Bermuda shorts man with the dog aggressive Doberman crosses the street nervously when he sees me on the porch. I guess I have already sprayed him with the hose. He invented a nasty game for himself, my Dobie’s tougher than your Dobie and let his dog fence fight with mine. Honestly mine is huge and even though he’s old he would pulverize Bermuda short’s dog but I don’t allow that and after asking, no pleading with him to stop, and having to pull Jake away snarling and trying to kill the other dog three times in one week, I stepped out from behind the acacia’s with the hose and blasted him, the man not the dog.
My daughter headed out earlier with her friends walking the tracks down to the beach at Tamarack. My mom is in Grass Valley using her real name for the first time in a couple of years and living with a nice guy named Jimbo. He’s reeled her in from Bi-polar/schizophrenic crazy land. How long will it last this time before she gets too uncomfortable being Vicki and decides to be Willie Nelson’s wife again or Cher or some new name, new identity? It’s hard telling, I’m glad for now she’s okay enough to write a letter and sound like herself, not too happy not too sad just kind of normal.
Future hubby has been gone three weeks now, maybe four as I recall, without any word from him if he’ll ever return. He went off to Nevada to help on a ranch with his sister and parents, to find himself, or figure out if he wanted to come back and be with me, but mainly to punish me. I missed him terribly at first. He was always threatening to leave, one of my buttons of abandonment he learned real quickly to push all of the time. It’s been peaceful without him. I have adjusted to this life without him and as I sit out here I realize he’s a jerk and I don’t want him to come back. He somehow sensed this and is on his way back, go figure.
This is one of those points. This moment. This decision I made and also wavered at, and you can’t have it both ways. From way out here in the future where I live I said yes, with hesitation but still yes, sure come back, and it played out a big long lifetime, sometimes fun, mostly not, mostly struggle and in the end finding out the person I trusted and loved lived a secret life pretty much the whole time.
Back on the porch steps where I am visiting with my row of gigantic Boston ferns growing right out of the dirt next to the porch, I always seemed to murder them slowly in the house, this cute little yellow house that has been here since the thirties that is really only big enough for me and my daughter and my two big dogs. Was there one of my probable selves that realized we weren’t a good match, that being unhappy most of the time isn’t a normal way to live, that was brave enough to say no to him when he stood in front of me, crying, asking to come back?
There is now.
Cue the Strings was written for Writing 101 Day Two- A Room With a View