The Postscript

It was an old camelback couch, a loveseat really, but with wide, rolled arms. It appeared to be an older piece of furniture that had been restored. The fabric was crazy. It was a patchwork of burned velvet fabric in brilliant hues. It was the brightest, craziest couch I’d ever seen, and it was being sold alongside art and sculpture, which made sense, because it really was a work of art.

The interior of our apartment will set you right back to the 1980s. The Formica countertop has seen better days. I write in a corner of the living room and have exactly six inches between the back of my office chair and the end of the couch. Peter measured our apartment, and it is 400 square feet—and that includes a rather large bedroom.

I love ice cream. I have always loved ice cream. But I have noticed my tendency to eat it until my face goes numb and have avoided it. When I’m in Mexico, I walk by an ice cream shop every night, where I have bought ice cream before. It is good. So almost every night, I get to the ice cream shop, I pause, and I ask myself, “Should I get ice cream tonight?”

I stopped carrying dog treats because I feared that the downtown dogs (or their owners) might not welcome my treats. Maybe they were on a diet (the dogs, I mean). Maybe they had allergies. Maybe they would be suspicious of a strange woman doling out treats.

I was thinking there was really no point in complaining to your husband when you trip on the pavement. It might be your fault, or the fault of the pavement, or the fault of your shoes, but it almost certainly has nothing to do with your husband, and the odds are he is wearing sensible shoes.

When I divorced, one of the hardest things to accept was that I was going to lose this family I had been given in marriage, a family I had grown steadily closer to for more than 22 years. But that turned out not to be the case.

Every evening without fail, the street sweepers are out, sweeping every fleck of confetti and eggshell off the streets, a job that would be tricky under any circumstances, but is made much more difficult because the streets are made of brick and cobblestones.

Like a deeply dysfunctional relationship, my jade plants reward me for forgetting about them, neglecting them, and treating them badly. A near total lack of care and the lowest possible emotional involvement are disproportionately rewarded with growth. The guiltier I feel, the larger they grow.

Yesterday, I went with my mother and father, my aunt, my sister, and four cousins to meet with the funeral director. He was surprised. He had to scout up more chairs. 

It doesn’t sound like a lot. It seems like a pretty simple thing, actually, not a serious job assignment. It doesn’t sound entirely sensible, and it certainly doesn’t sound pragmatic. But I’m going to seek the good because this morning, it suddenly seemed to me that making a practice of seeking the good is a lot harder than it seems. And possibly, it’s more important than it sounds.