Disturb not the Dream

The lady at Kroger asked me if I had fun plans for the holiday in that polite impersonal way store clerks have of making conversation. I actually prefer indifference in my checkout clerks, but I live in a small town, so unless I am talking on my cell phone, I am required to make nice. “No,” I replied, “but I’m going out of town tomorrow for the rest of the week.” I give no further details although she looks at me in an anticipatory way. Searching for a new topic she compliments my cloth bags.

     “These are really nice,” she says, fluffing out the tiny pillow into a full size silky black and white stripped grocery bag. “Where did you get them?” I confess to buying them at Whole Foods and her enthusiasm is only slightly diminished. That’s when I realize that as usual, the bagger is putting things into plastic before placing them in my bags, thus negating my green efforts. For the umpteenth time I explain to them that they will not hurt my bags by putting the groceries directly into them. Their eyes do not betray a trace of comprehension.

     “Have a wonderful trip,” intones the clerk, and then, like she was sending a soldier off to battle she says, “and be safe.” Her sincerity sounds genuine, but I am not tempted to share anything about my dread of today’s journey.

     As I walk through the parking lot I rehearse the mind numbing drive to Kentucky and then on to Iowa, both places I would be happier seeing from 20,000 feet than up close and personal. This is my 20th and last year volunteering for the creative problem solving competition called OM. The fire I once felt for it has passed. It’s time to let it go. After the closing ceremonies on Saturday we will head back to Kentucky and the final gunfight at the OK Corral. The weapons will hopefully be words, but with my family you never know for sure.

      After June 1 I am optimistic that I will never have to see my brother again in the flesh. I have searched my memory bank for happy stories that involve him, but the only one I can come up with is one winter day when I was 4 and he pulled my sister and I on a sled through the freshly fallen snow. I later found out that my mother made him do it to get us out from under foot. I sometimes feel a bit wistful when other people mention a relationship with a brother, but in truth I am mostly indifferent. You cannot mourn something you never had.

      I ran a fever last night and my husband said to me, “You don’t have to go you know.” As tempting as that sounded I told him firmly, “Yes, I do.” I pulled my other suitcase out for him to start packing. When it was time for me to sleep it was open across the bed so he moved it to let me lie down. I woke at three with fever dreams and a sore throat. The suitcase lies on the living room sofa, open, with a cat sleeping comfortably inside. I made coffee and sat down beside the cat to write out the injustice in the world. I think about how my brother hates cats, hates me, hates himself. Last night’s dreams retreat just out of my reach except for this feeling that no matter how things play out I see clearly that I am the fortunate child in my family. Artemisia snores in a soft contented sleep, oblivious to hatred in the world