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Homeless 0-72: Hard Reset

The landlord agreed in an email this morning to extend our tenancy to mid-November. This offer transforms zero minus twenty seven days into zero minus seventy two. Still no word on the possible next home, but our transition promises to be less complicated than it might have been. Still, Amy’s ordered packing boxes and I suspect I’ll wear a fresh trail between here and the storage place over the coming few weeks.

I’ve read enough detective novels to appreciate a plot twist. I might see one coming and still feel whip-lashed by the experience. Twists open possibilities, and yesterday I was feeling distinctly dead-ended. The weather was settling like a roosting hen with that warm, wet feather smothering only an unhatched egg could love. I broke sweat as soon as I started down the hill, and dripped sweat like a melting Popsicle until back inside, shirt salt-stained without exertion.

I was just putting the finishing grill marks on a fine piece of Copper River Sockeye when the sky decided to open up. Nothing to do but stand there like a little lost lamb while the day soaked me to within an inch of humility. Supper was so close.

I puddled my way back inside, set that fine filet on its bed of purple frisse, and headed for the shower. The antidote for being soaked seemed in that humbled moment to be soaking myself. Even more of the same that bushwhacked me, but by my own hand. So I re-showered and hung my sopping shirt from the shower head, then lay down on the bed and let loose with another shower, tears this time.

It had been a while since I’d tumbled over that particular wall into the garden beyond. Periods of deep disappointment in my life have always punctuated themselves with tears, as if breaking a drought with life-preserving rain. The weeks of aimless wandering manifested. The long silent-suffering summer fell behind me. I missed supper, consumed instead by my recent hopeless past.

This morning, sky still steely, I woke long before the sun even thought about trying to break through this damned impenetrable overcast. Futility might have been breakfast, save for a cleared head and a lighter heart. The watermelon made a bracing meal once I’d fished it out of immersion in the ice chest, just before the landlord made space for us to transition a bit less startled into whatever follows this.

More hard resets coming, I’m sure.

©2012 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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