Few weeks pass without someone asking me if I still like my tiny life. Usually a small smile appears on my face and I murmur something vaguely responsive. Occasionally someone wants to know why I moved to California and whether I plan to stay. I have no answer for them. I have no crystal ball. I do not live with the thought of the future; the past presses itself against my soul with such intensity that the future never stands a chance.
My days fill themselves almost without effort on my part. The alarm on my phone sounds at six. I rise and make my way down the narrow steps from my lofted bedroom. At the foot of those stairs, I grip the drop-down cherry table with my right hand and navigate into the kitchen area. I tried other tables but even one that better fit the space had issues, so the little jog around its end must be tolerated. My friend Sheldon made the table from a gorgeous live-edge slab, harvested from a tree that fell in his yard. It’s a lovely thing.
After scrambled eggs and toast, I ready myself for work. Four days a week, I serve as a drafter in the office of a California attorney. The other three days see me at the helm of the artist collective that I founded, constantly snapping photos of creative wares and posting them to social media. Evenings stretch before me begging for distraction. I read, I write, I watch short clips on the internet. Eventually, sleep wraps me in its uneasy embrace.
In quiet moments, restless spirits raise themselves. Wearing familiar faces, they mingle in the gloom. They gesture to paths that I can no longer recall having once traversed. They open doors that closed themselves to me so many hours ago that the resounding slams have long since faded. I know the names of each attending specter, but even if I hold myself completely still, I cannot recall the touch of their fingertips grazing my hand.
I drove home to Andrus Island last evening just as the sun set in the near horizon. I pulled onto private property to watch its fierce glow. Within a few minutes, a car came towards me. I could not see the driver through its tinted windows, but I understood that my presence had drawn his scrutiny. He idled just beyond the stretch of drive that would afford me turning space. I raised my hand in that universal gesture which tells the watcher that I will be leaving. When I had pulled down to the roadway, he moved his vehicle across the entrance, just in case his message had not been made clear. I did not hold his diligence against him. There are some places where strangers will never be welcome.
Mugwumpishly tendered,
Corinne Corley
The Missouri Mugwump®
