Read Online Celestial Inventories by Steve Rasnic Tem - Free Book Online
Authors: Steve Rasnic Tem
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for sure if their preservation had been intentional. Others, like the gatherings of cracks in corners or those scattered arrays of torn fabrics were no doubt accidental, but possessed of beauty in any case and so needed to stay.
These were the moments of a lifetime, the celebrations and the missteps, and I wondered now if our children ever had any idea what they both stepped in and out of on their average day in our home.
“What’s going to become of it all?” our daughter exclaimed. She moved through the downstairs rooms unconsciously pirouetting, glancing around. She’d seen it all before, lived with all but the most recent of it, but blindness comes easy. I could see her eyes trying to remember. “You can’t just throw it away!” she cried, when a rain of doll’s heads from a decayed net overhead set off her squeals and giggles.
“You kids can have whatever you like,” my wife replied from the passage to the kitchen. “But thrown out, left behind, or simply forgotten, things do have a way of becoming
gone
. Which is what is about to happen to your lunches, if the two of you don’t come with me right now!”
Within the sea of salt and pepper shakers (armies of cartoon characters and national caricatures with holes in their heads) that covered our kitchen table my wife had created tiny islands for our soup bowls and milk glasses. I had the urge to sweep that collection of shakers off onto the floor, just to show how done with this never ending tide of
things
I’d become, but I knew that wasn’t what Elaine needed to see at that moment. She stared at the red surface of her soup as if waiting for some mystery to emerge.
“Sweetheart, we just don’t need all this anymore.”
“You seemed to need it before,” she said to all the staring shaker heads.
“It’s hard to explain such a change,” I said, “but you collect and you collect and then one day you say to yourself ‘this is all too much.’ You can’t let anything else in, so you don’t have much choice but to try to clear the decks.”
“I just don’t want things to change,” she said softly.
“Oh, yes, you do,” her mother said, patting her hand. “You most certainly do. Everything has an expiration date. It just isn’t always a precise date, or printed on the package. And you would hate the alternative.”
I’d been distracted by all the calendars on the kitchen walls, each displaying a different month and year, and for just that moment not sure which one was the current one, the one with the little box reserved for
right now
.
Elaine looked at her mother with an expression that wasn’t exactly anger, but something very close. “Then why bother, Mom? When it all just has to be gotten rid of, in the end?”
“Who can know?” My wife smiled, dipping into her soup, then frowned suddenly as if she’d discovered something unfortunate. “To fill the time, I suppose. To exercise—” She turned suddenly to me. “Or is it ‘exorcise’?” Without waiting for an answer she turned again to her soup, lifted the bowl, and sipped. Done, she smiled shyly at our daughter with a pink mustache and continued, “our creativity. To fill the space, to put our mark down, and then to erase it. That’s what we human beings do. That ’s all we know how to do.”
“Human beings?” Elaine laughed. “You know, I always thought you two were wizards, superheroes, magical beings, something like that. Not like anybody else’s parents. Not like anybody else at all. All of us kids did.”
My wife closed her eyes and sighed. “I think we did, too.”
Over the next few weeks we had the rest of our children over to reveal something of our intentions, although I’m quite sure a number of unintentions were exposed as well. They brought along numerous grandchildren, some who had so transformed since their last visits it was as if a brand new person had entered the room, fresh creatures whose habits and behaviors we had yet to learn about. The
These were the moments of a lifetime, the celebrations and the missteps, and I wondered now if our children ever had any idea what they both stepped in and out of on their average day in our home.
“What’s going to become of it all?” our daughter exclaimed. She moved through the downstairs rooms unconsciously pirouetting, glancing around. She’d seen it all before, lived with all but the most recent of it, but blindness comes easy. I could see her eyes trying to remember. “You can’t just throw it away!” she cried, when a rain of doll’s heads from a decayed net overhead set off her squeals and giggles.
“You kids can have whatever you like,” my wife replied from the passage to the kitchen. “But thrown out, left behind, or simply forgotten, things do have a way of becoming
gone
. Which is what is about to happen to your lunches, if the two of you don’t come with me right now!”
Within the sea of salt and pepper shakers (armies of cartoon characters and national caricatures with holes in their heads) that covered our kitchen table my wife had created tiny islands for our soup bowls and milk glasses. I had the urge to sweep that collection of shakers off onto the floor, just to show how done with this never ending tide of
things
I’d become, but I knew that wasn’t what Elaine needed to see at that moment. She stared at the red surface of her soup as if waiting for some mystery to emerge.
“Sweetheart, we just don’t need all this anymore.”
“You seemed to need it before,” she said to all the staring shaker heads.
“It’s hard to explain such a change,” I said, “but you collect and you collect and then one day you say to yourself ‘this is all too much.’ You can’t let anything else in, so you don’t have much choice but to try to clear the decks.”
“I just don’t want things to change,” she said softly.
“Oh, yes, you do,” her mother said, patting her hand. “You most certainly do. Everything has an expiration date. It just isn’t always a precise date, or printed on the package. And you would hate the alternative.”
I’d been distracted by all the calendars on the kitchen walls, each displaying a different month and year, and for just that moment not sure which one was the current one, the one with the little box reserved for
right now
.
Elaine looked at her mother with an expression that wasn’t exactly anger, but something very close. “Then why bother, Mom? When it all just has to be gotten rid of, in the end?”
“Who can know?” My wife smiled, dipping into her soup, then frowned suddenly as if she’d discovered something unfortunate. “To fill the time, I suppose. To exercise—” She turned suddenly to me. “Or is it ‘exorcise’?” Without waiting for an answer she turned again to her soup, lifted the bowl, and sipped. Done, she smiled shyly at our daughter with a pink mustache and continued, “our creativity. To fill the space, to put our mark down, and then to erase it. That’s what we human beings do. That ’s all we know how to do.”
“Human beings?” Elaine laughed. “You know, I always thought you two were wizards, superheroes, magical beings, something like that. Not like anybody else’s parents. Not like anybody else at all. All of us kids did.”
My wife closed her eyes and sighed. “I think we did, too.”
Over the next few weeks we had the rest of our children over to reveal something of our intentions, although I’m quite sure a number of unintentions were exposed as well. They brought along numerous grandchildren, some who had so transformed since their last visits it was as if a brand new person had entered the room, fresh creatures whose habits and behaviors we had yet to learn about. The
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