He's texted me to let me know he's had a bad night, so, not disturbing him, I stick in my Air Pods, tune into my "Liked Songs" (on shuffle), and quietly tackle the things I'd abandoned when Iphis took up residence ten days ago.
I brush out the detritus of dried flowers in an upper cupboard. I don't remember Demeter's being an aficionado of dried flowers, but I keep coming across them. Maybe friends gifted them; Demeter held on to things that reminded her of friends and family.
I set up a station in the living room with a basket I've designated for recycled paper, and begin ripping up text books, because they're poor candidates for book sales or donations. It's hard work.
I tear up two large old biology textbooks from Demeter's night classes at the university. I remember meeting her at the door when she hammered to get in, late one evening. Her face was white with shock; she looked exactly the same way as she had years earlier, standing on the front steps after returning from work, where she'd received word that her estranged father had died suddenly.
The shock this time was the result of a fall on some ice at one of the more remote bus stops on campus. She'd broken a bone in her hand.
The books are inscribed with her former surname and our old address.
I move on to a set of Audubon encyclopedias with grimy taupe covers. They were white when they struck me, one by one, on my shoulders, face and head in my youth. Double Leo Sister, in pre-teen rage, hurled them across the room with furious grunts, like a tennis player lobbing shots at Wimbledon, in response to something I'd blurted out in exasperation, I guess.
I rarely blurted what I was thinking, for this very reason. A few years later, she beat me about the arms and legs with a map-case. I had red welts from the metal edges for some time.
I steer my mind to the music I love: Mozart, Mott the Hoople, Josh Ritter.
I go home when I'm fed up.
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