A Million Things

He’s not handicapped. He’s a tri-pawed.

I know you're not one thing. Knowing you is not one thing; it was never one thing. It's a million things. And now the place holding them together is me." (Rae)

Why worry? it's all skidding out of control anyway.

Lettie nods, like she’s not surprised. “It’s good, Rae. You can’t stay here, in an empty house.” “You do.” She smiles a little at that. “Mine’s a different kind of empty.” “Is that why you keep filling it up?” “Touché.” She pulls her jacket around her shoulders. “I’m old. I’m allowed to pretend. You’re young. You shouldn’t know about empty. Not yet.

Memories are a bit like houses, don’t you think? They scaffold all this stuff. Curate it; give things a place so you feel safe and secure. And you step through the rooms and remember what was. But it’s not real, they’re just walls. And before you know it, most of your life is just memories, some of them not even that clear. And it’s just a house that reminds you what it felt like when you thought it was a home. You don’t realize how ephemeral it is. How temporary. That it’s just all going to be something you remember. And the memories that made you feel safe, made you feel like you, are just a flimsy reminder of what’s gone to dust and that every second that passes is going to be the same, just something you remember.” She stares back at the house. “Past is past. The dead don’t come back. Maybe it’s best just to let them go.

Perhaps I’m asleep. This is the sort of rubbish you get when people tell you their dreams. I bite my lip—it hurts. Not asleep, then.