Grabbed

My supervisor grabbed on with both hands at the suggestion of saving the papery wrappers from the sterile sets for Humane Society clean up cloths. Many of us salvage them for home already, but there are more than can be readily used. This is the woman who, before recycling was done officially, used to take bags of plastic and paper in her own car to a center. Just pile them up in the back of the car, and haul them in. She also suggested they could use the heavy wrappers for the floors of cages, and told me to just take all the (now un) sterile gloves that have piled up, and the coban wrap, too. Her energy levels and enthusiasm and overdriven worth ethic scare me a little. I who love sleep and slack and consider myself a follower of Enlightened Laziness.

Many years ago, I threw pots on a wheel. I thought about it all the time, dreamed the clay in my hands, would stop over to the pottery for an hour to throw or trim. Today, I thought about the cats that way, wanting to go in and photograph and comb them, could feel their fur in my hands. Or like in the OB GYN rotation of nursing school, holding the newborn babies, I could do all the injections and washing and wrapping with a delighted competence. Though all the other women teased me that I was getting "baby hungry" and would soon want one of my own, I knew better. I would never make my living as a potter, Moby is our only cat, and children belong with other people, but I love the limited aspect of the work.

I have a relationship with Moby, trust built up over years, we understand each other. A process I am in no hurry to start again, and if Moby lives well into his 20s, we would both be overjoyed. I knew from the first kiss I would never kiss any man again after D. Just knew. Hugs, yes. Kisses, no. Far from limiting my ability to love, it expands it. Lovefull at home, I can send out generous tendrils, fruits and flowers. (Yes, I know, but I don't express human sex in flowers.)


The novel is still in my daily thoughts. I so want to write it, but the story resists, whispering hotly in my ear, holding my collar, not letting me away to record it yet.