Friday, November 02, 2007

Dear Former Houseguest,

You aren't here anymore, and I am sad. The Kid has noticed your absence too. I couldn't figure out why he kept scampering off to look out the window, and finally realized that he was checking to see if any of the passing cars might be you coming back home. They weren't.

The house still smells of you, sort of minty and fresh and maybe a little medicinal - but not nearly as reminiscent of a tube of toothpaste as that description implies. With just me and The Kid to work from, the house tends to take on a musty, vegetative kind of smell - something like a tall glass of basement, garnished with a long stalk of limp celery. I like the way you make my house smell.

I found the cash you left behind, stacked neatly beneath two persimmons on the kitchen counter. I really have nothing more to say about it than that, I just liked the way the sentence sounded. I've never used "persimmons" in a sentence before. Actually, I've never used persimmons in anything before. Maybe I'll use some of that cash to buy a cookbook and figure out what to do with the things.

I wish that I'd had more time to say goodbye. Now you know how I live my life: frantic, half asleep, and perpetually ten minutes late. Perhaps it's for the best though. Had I not needed to get The Kid to school and myself to work, we could still be saying goodbye, stars in our own Big Red commercial.

May you reach your destination safely, and be plagued by the Big Red jingle only briefly.

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