Question of the evening…Antonio asks, ‘So…is Eli your boyfriend or your husband?’ I respond, ‘Where have you been for the last seven years?’ He asks Eli, ‘Are you Auntie’s boyfriend or her husband?’

Eli’s response…’I don’t know’.

I’m living in a house with children.

Just five minutes watching the horrifying show ‘Hoarding: Buried Alive’…and that is all it takes for me to get back on my feet and start cleaning out with a vengeance. Streamline, scrub, toss, boil, dust, fold, dry, junk, stack, broom, wipe, sweep…toss again. Glory…

It was that sort of glorious summer morning; things were pending, but not pressing. Humidity broke late in the night and up went the windows, thrown open with abandon to let the cool, almost fierce southerly air push its way into the house, knocking aside curtains, wending upstairs to clean out heated corners.

The coffee was strong and the bagels crunchy; crumbs falling on the cooling carpets. In the far distance there were four lone, long blasts of a train whistle; a reminder of lives in other places and those living out other purposes.

The neighborhood was silent. One mourning dove cooed for a bit and ceased. No one was around. A full moon lay on the calendar while August was quietly birthing…

In the end, at the terminus of the school year…we realized that the system was purely data hungry. Research had gone from being helpful, a tool…to an entity to be worshipped. More details, more schedules, more numbers, more charts…it was a sacrificial system…a blood lust with minimal return, forever morphing.

Everyone scrambled to print, share, produce, file. Then the sated lull…only to have the stream fill up again with requests. Brand new, all agog with the novelty of it all, we stood with bright eyes, waiting as if we had never traversed this path before. Then…silence.

After awhile, we divided amongst ourselves…those choosing to fight to change the system went one way. Those choosing to work outside the system…under the radar, through the side door, hand held heavy on the delete button; we went another way. But could those blasted test scores ever inch upward?

Raising the test scores…that was the never ending hymn, sung out wherever we were forced to listen…

I was caught up in the aesthetics of the matter, not the practicality.

He could not eat his breakfast…so graciously wrapped, carried and presented to him in his shop, the room filled with finely carved wood pieces, shavings and woody air. His hands were covered in timber dust and grease.

The thought of providing napkins for this working man slid through my mind as slick as shilly shally and flim flam.

This is why he builds, and I build differently…

Exciting summer news: I just swallowed a bug on my walk around the cul-de-sac. They say what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Don’t believe the hype…

‘What do you mean…there’s a problem?’ I look directly at him. ‘Well’, he begins rather sheepishly. ‘I didn’t quite think it through’. I look down at my feet and breathe deeply. This reminds me of a series of phrases I do not wish to hear; statements such as ‘Oh, I’m sure there will be coffee at the early morning meeting. No need to bring your own’. Or ‘You can’t miss it’ when I know for certain that I most assuredly will miss it. ‘I didn’t think it through’ is just such a phrase. Life experience tends to run counterclockwise and now I find myself up against this new dilemma.

I’m standing in the upstairs bedroom. ‘What exactly didn’t you think through?’ We stand side by side and stare up at the newly crafted, solid red oak king size Murphy bed and surrounding shelving and ledge he just finished. ‘It looks fantastic, gorgeous. It completely changes the room!’ He sighs and nods his head. ‘Yes, but…but it is incredibly heavy and now I can’t move it out from the wall frame’. I stare at him. He starts over. ‘I mean, it can be done but it takes two sturdy people to accomplish that’. He looks down doubtfully at my freshly pedicured and flip flopped feet. ‘Do you think you could try to help me move it?’

I shift sideways, left foot, right foot. ‘So…you’re telling me that it’s a ‘Murphy’ bed without the ‘Murphy?’ ‘It’s actually more of a ‘Groucho’ bed’, he responds, chuckling at his own joke. I stare back at the heavy wood. ‘It’s ‘Groucho’ because I’m going to be ‘Groucho’ when I try to help you move this!’ Silence. I continue. ‘You do know that I have a wonky back? Have you seen my feet? Have you looked at my fresh pedicure?’ He glances down at my toes. ‘Pretty color’ he mumbles. ‘Yes!’ I respond. ‘It’s called ‘So clutch”. He looks at me and repeats, ”So clutch?’ Don’t you mean bright red?’ I shake my head vigorously and say, ”So clutch’ as I clutch my heart when I try to help you move this!’ I continue shaking my head. ‘I don’t know. I mean, I just don’t know’. Silence.

‘I just didn’t think it through. I mean, it’s permanent. It’s really permanent. It’s staying in the house should we ever decide to move’. I reach up and run my hand carefully along the fine lines, the wood smells raw and clean, carrying the inner glowing light of a newly shaped room, the promise of curtains, neutral shades and throw pillows…fresh paint. It is lovely…and definitely permanent.

‘We’ll figure it out!’ I give the frame a smacking pat. ‘It is solid. It’s a real bulwark of a bed. You’re right it is staying in the house. We could be buried in it…or under it, whichever comes first’. I sigh heavily. ‘I’m going downstairs to make coffee’. He’s seated on the edge of the bed and he looks up at me grinning. ‘No, I mean it. There will definitely be coffee’. I smile at him. ‘I did think that through…’