we awake. he finds the kleenex box by the side of the bed and slowly, one by one, removes every single tissue from the box, creating a growing soft kleenex everest on our bed. i know that i should probably tell him not to do this (i imagine a grown man, 45, at a funeral, plucking the kleenex one by one from the box on the solemn hall table next to the spray of white lilies, unaware that he is doing anything wrong as the bereaved look on in horror as they mount on the floor).
but i can’t. i’m too mesmerized by the fact that he appears to be unlikely to stop until he gets to the bottom of the box. there are 250 tissues. the mountain grows. i lie there and watch him and think about how he doesn’t know anything about kleenex…or what they’re for….he just know they make this extremely satisfying FROOOOSH sound as they exit the box. they fly into the air and a few float onto the floor. one tissue lands on the top of the box, obscuring the correct tissue to pull. he rips it in half as if punishing it. he’s so happy.
now the box is empty. we are buried in a pile of 250 tissues. I notice his nose is running. i grab one of the tissues, and go to wipe the snot away. he starts to scream in agony. the poetry is profound. the tears come. i grab another tissue to wipe the tears away. he isn’t having it.
we are not allowed to use these tissues for any of their intended purposes. i start thinking that he’s just a really meticulous artist who is angry at me for fucking up his tissue mountain.
my life is really overwhelming and sad right now, so i start crying with a typical combination of joy and grief that is common these days.
and there we are.
the two of us, crying, surrounded by a mountain of tissues, with no intention of using any of them.
isn’t that just life.
ps I’ll see a bunch of you tomorrow at 3:30 at the basilica in hudson, NY. if you’re coming, comment here? I’ll make a post later today about some upcoming stuff I’d love to talk about. I’m pretty raw right now. hugs will be welcome.