Leitmotif

Just beyond the welcoming, wide doorway it sits, shuffling its feet. Perhaps it listens, that I have always suspected, but it thinks certainly, blinking there in the hallway, bold enough for life. I am tired, too tired, maybe I open myself to it. If I open, I can close, and the dry, watchful thing need never be noticed. Yes, sit there, move your fabulous feet and see what it gets you, my old friend.

It always is just where I cannot catch the glimpse, or it leaves the room as a shadow on the floor as I enter. But lately I was just too weary. Oh, let it be there, let it. I hate the thought of it, the different thought, and I cannot take it anymore, this way I have of just being outside and hoping. It is in the dark as well, the shadows of the creeping, sly wretch with those deathless eyes following my heartbeat. Who in the world could simply stare like that, what is the marvelous thing in my breathing that fascinates?  It is a patient presence, and most of the time the feel of its awareness is slight, so I dream it is gone.

I had actually forgotten it. The first morning was like light on the water. All that disorientation, the dizziness of there being windows and doors in the wrong  places . Then the rush of wonder, I am free, and this is new. And I ran my eyes over the kitchen, plates and floors shining with promise. This is my dream. I swaggered through the door into the dining room and suddenly there it was, oh, God, what is there? A large, lace medallion under the whirlpool bowl, where I had seen myself floating pink, blown roses, was swirled up in a confection of linen, perfect as a vision. It rose in an impossible configuration, tall as a church candle when the incense crawls, and there it was, not breathing, but alive nonetheless.

I had never liked that stupid bowl. It was a hand-me-down, and I had seen it and thought, oh, my very lovely thing, why did someone give you away?  I had squirmed inside. It was too pretty, too heavy, and that whirlpool motif was strange, like walking a labyrinth. And I don’t care that there are labyrinths in cathedrals, they are evil, they lead you down paths and strand you in open spaces  in dark forests, surrounded by watchful eyes. But, true to my new way of thinking (pushing the feeling down)  I said, it is so beautiful, picture it with the sunlight hitting it on the table, Queen Elizabeth roses floating in it. I forgot the windows faced north, I forgot everything I swore I would remember. I heard the sudden voice of my older sister, “Not again, stop this, it’s so perfect.” So I spread the lace medallion and placed the bowl.

Now, look what had happened. I was in this brand-new place and it was starting again perhaps, and I was angry. St. Michael was standing there, but he was concentrating on satan, and  I had this thing facing me, white and defiant. But, it turned out there was nothing to it. The medallion unwound, the bowl in hand, both in a plastic bag and the Fatima water sprayed, the prayer said, I slammed it on the top of the trash barrel. When I heard the truck, I waited behind the lace curtain, even the cat came out for this, and we watched it being handled and smashed, thank you very much.     

But, now, the shuffling was here, and the creature had returned. Now it was the same again. It doesn’t happen consistently. If it did, one could make plans and say, well, Thursday, of course, it’s okay, it’s only for a few moments. No, you are pretending to be normal and so much so that you don’t hear it at first. Then suddenly you realize that it is as loud as thunder, and there you are, caught.