The Attics of My Mind

I've spent the last two days tucked up into the eves of the attic, sanding away at the plaster board, trying to gently scrub off any excess plaster mud that's there. It's not a hard job, but time consuming and the repetitive gestures makes me feel like my left shoulder is going to explode.

I sit there moving my arm back and forth, up and down, and I find myself walking, once again, through the hallways of my mind. Remembering people I haven't seen in years, nights out with friends, what ever happened to so-and-so, and wondering why so much bullshit has happened along the way. Then I'll start humming a tune, connecting the rhythms to memories, as I shift my contorted body into the next space. I can see as I look over my work just where the good memories were and where I remembered the bad.

I'm lucky to not be alone in my attic because Madame Home Depot is with me. She's there sanding too and when I drop my sanding block because I'm miles away, she kindly picks it back up for me, hands it to me, and we sand some more. We sand and think. We sand and talk. Both of us covered in a fine white dust and if I could get my hands on some red, red lipstick, I could easily transform my Irish-American face into that of a beautiful geisha. Someone else entirely, who's memories I don't know.

The dust covers our hair, our eyes, our clothes, the floor, the furniture, the bed. It's snowing in the attic and I'm wistful. I want out of this house, this place, this life. I want to take my man, my children, my dogs, and go. Back to where Madame Home Depot and I lived before I realized just how hard it is to really love. They say you can never go home again, but I'm willing to try.

I climb down from the eves and take a shower. My skin turns bright red from the heat of the water and the dust and dirt wash away down the drain. I step out to see my face in the mirror. My freckled face that has accompanied me forever. I look into my red, tired eyes and stare. I know. I know. 

As I head downstairs, I hear Typhon howling and for some reason, the chords of Canon in D echo through my mind. Everything is off tune, but the melody is true. The Man hands both Madame Home Depot and me a coffee and as I clutch that warmth in my hands, I know. I know. I've gone home again.