Goodbyes are difficult for me. No matter how brief an encounter, I manage to end up feeling slightly sad to say goodbye. I guess it’s ultimately a need to acknowledge what we’ve shared, and how fleeting life is. It could be a server or bartender, a table-neighbor at an all-day conference, a particularly friendly nurse or hygienist. Actually, the last time I had blood and urine collected for labs, I found myself wondering if I would ever see the phlebotomist again. She had gently probed my inner arm, in the tender way a dear friend might if she were a phlebotomist, prodded the crease right inside the bend of my elbow, finding the perfect, accessible vein. I rarely miss, she had boasted playfully. I trusted her. She gave me instructions on how to collect my urine, explaining how to place the specimen cup inside a shoebox-sized metal door on the bathroom wall of the bathroom, attached to the lab room where she worked. As I set down my cup, warm with the urine I had just collected, I thought of opening the door to say goodbye, then caught myself.
Today, as we carpooled to work, my husband and I talked about throwing someone out of our house who had been with us for sixteen years. It felt like abandoning a family member. Knowing I was upset, my husband, unendingly sympathetic in that moment, had said I get it, you're attached. She practically raised this family. It's the right decision, but it's hard. He was talking about our refrigerator. She was almond-colored, rusting in places, banged up a bit, and, let’s face it, had her freezer on the bottom. I was tired of squatting down to root for the frozen dinners we had stashed there. But I couldn’t imagine our kitchen without her. True, she no longer matched the other appliances, but should that be a reason to remove someone from the home? Having been promised seventy-five dollars to recycle her made me feel like a pimp. As I stripped her naked in the kitchen, removing all of the colored magnets, school forms and postcards, I tried not to cry. She still worked, for God’s sake. What made it worse was that just when I began to comfort myself with thoughts of her providing nutritionfor another family, a group home or a couple just starting out, I learned that, in fact, she was to be dismantled, essentially dismembered. Then distributed to all sorts of factories and assembly lines to be used for her parts. An organ donor before she was even dead.
Her shiny replacement arrived the next day: stoic, haughty, confident. She purred like a sleeping kitten. Her insides gleamed under the fancy new lighting,
twinkling rows of, what can only be described as Christmas lights. She was roomy, and had a beautiful expansive freezer perched right in her generous bosom. But all I could think of was my worn, almond beauty, the one with the streaks of red marker, the Curious George magnets, and the school picture of my son from last year. I couldn’t imagine Ms. Shiny Pants tolerating such nonsense.
Having wiped down her insides, I filled her, item by item, with the few vegetables and containers I had left. She was roomier, a better design for our current needs. But I found her impatient and demanding. She complained if I left the door open too long. I know she had a job to do, and big shoes to fill, so continued patiently packing her with our family's food, whispering Shut up only once, out of earshot, trusting that someday I would grow to love her. I even realized somberly that she could someday outlive me. When I noticed that I had forgotten to give the recycling guys the large white freezer basket from our old fridge, my throat caught, as if I had found an old sweater left behind by a family member who had recently died. I considered tossing it out, then decided to repurpose it as a container for cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink. I comforted myself with the thought that it was left behind deliberately, that maybe I'm not the only one who has trouble with goodbyes.
Having wiped down her insides, I filled her, item by item, with the few vegetables and containers I had left. She was roomier, a better design for our current needs. But I found her impatient and demanding. She complained if I left the door open too long. I know she had a job to do, and big shoes to fill, so continued patiently packing her with our family's food, whispering Shut up only once, out of earshot, trusting that someday I would grow to love her. I even realized somberly that she could someday outlive me. When I noticed that I had forgotten to give the recycling guys the large white freezer basket from our old fridge, my throat caught, as if I had found an old sweater left behind by a family member who had recently died. I considered tossing it out, then decided to repurpose it as a container for cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink. I comforted myself with the thought that it was left behind deliberately, that maybe I'm not the only one who has trouble with goodbyes.
