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Reluctantly, I park, walk through the tiny back
yard, pass the one small tree with but a few leaves
left hanging on it and enter Kenneth's home. It's
a chill Fall day. Gray cloud masks the sun.
Last July, after a somewhat stormy love affair,
Kenneth and Fiona had decided to give 'it' a try
and she moved in with him.
But on this day, the day before Thanksgiving, I
have agreed to help Kenneth move her belongings
out of his home while she is away. She is unaware
that we are to do this. When we finish, he will
change the locks on the doors and under the advice
of his lawyer, he will send Fiona a letter telling
her to refrain from all future contact.
We move slowly through the house, decide what has
to be done, divide up the work. In the few short
months that she has lived here, Fiona is found everywhere,
a blouse hanging on a doorknob, her shoes in the
entrance hall, cosmetics in the bathroom, a book
on the coffee table, her music CDs.
In the bedroom, I pack her clothing, personal things
that I feel I shouldn't be touching. I can smell
her scent. There's a flower-patterned dress and
I have a vision of her frolicking in it with him.
I try to be respectful by folding things carefully,
but I know that it won't matter. I am, after all,
no better than a silent assassin.
Kenneth begins to talk. He speaks of their relationship
as having gutted him emotionally and financially.
He fears that she will ignore the lawyer's letter,
come back, ring the bell endlessly, leave hateful
phone messages, break windows, kick in the door,
strike out at him. All of this she has done before,
he tells me. I try to marry these images with the
one he had told earlier of them making crazed love
on the kitchen floor.
We finish packing and begin loading the van. Kenneth
is anxious to finish before she returns, an anxiety
that has transferred to me. I continually have to
fight the urge to flee. I'm like a thief in the
apple orchard listening for the farmer's footsteps.
On leaving, I notice a small calendar hanging near
the fridge. Thanksgiving day, tomorrow, has been
circled in. I glance at the empty table and wonder
what had been planned for their thanksgiving.
As his last act, Kenneth looks over the small backyard,
picks up the only things left out, two bricks, and
locks them into the garage.
I raise my eyebrows in a 'what for?' expression.
"The last time we fought, she threw a rock
through the window," he explains.
I am gripped by what some call the jaws of the
black dog of depression. I don't mention my feelings
to Kenneth--this is not the time for me to speak
of my own relationship trials. But I know that we
aren't just moving Fiona out. We are walking in
a parade of ghosts, of my own ghosts, of friends
and lovers lost.
thanksgiving eve --
the last leaves soon to fall
from the tree
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