Some Days…

So, some days you’re over It. You’ve moved on, packed up all the old stained emotions, favorite memories, and worn out pieces of It that you’ve been meaning to get out of that spare closet that you didn’t want to acknowledge were STILL in there. Some days you’re powering through the to-do lists, the appointments, the details, and all the other tacky responsibilities that make up adult life. You’ve boxed, tagged, and double bagged your It and think it’s tightly stuffed in an inside back corner of the garbage truck that’s grumbling away from you down the street. And just as you breathe the sweet sigh of fresh clean relief and turn to go back inside your quaint new existence, sans It, you look down just in time to see but not stop yourself stubbing your big toe on that same stinking old It. And you are incredulous, hopping around on your one good foot glaring and yelling in angst and confusion as It just sits there, a mute pile of everything you’ve worked so hard to forget, to let go of, to walk away from, glaring up at your bruised ego.

It’s still here?!

How? Why? How dare It!!

And you stomp your foot and point and shake your finger to the winds, telling It every possible mode of transportation that It can take to remove itself from your presence, permanently! You shout, you jump up and down like a small child and cry out for It to Leave You Alone!

And there It sits, in bulky silence, until you circle fidgeting feet and aching toes around It, and finally sit down on the stoup beside It.

There’s really no time to sit on a stoup in a busy adult-life. There’s barely time to sit for a lunch counter stool let alone the luxury of a stoup.

Stoups are where conversations are made, futures are painted, and wisdom puddles along. You have no room for stoups to take up today! You’ve swept up and polished so everything is seamless for the lists and charts and details that make up your flow. Stoups are the reverse speed bumps that make you late and smudge your mascara.

But It’s not moving.

So, you sit down next to It on the stoup, and begin to untie the knots you were so careful to use. And you hug your knees, flex the resentful toe, and begin, again, back through the bags, the box, and all It’s many, worn, familiar smelling chapters of It and It’s part in your life.

One by one, the hours slide by, the to-dos are left undone in their neat stack on the counter, the must-have’s stand alone by the ream of unmet tacky needs by the back door.

And you sit, ensconced for an afternoon on the stoup, smiling as you finger the unpacked contents, removing “return to sender” labels, and smiling as the odors and colors fade and meld with some days and today.


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