Sad Song of Repiping
I want to go outside. I need to go outside. I have things to plant and trim. I feel stuck indoors, trapped in this room, hiding from a plumber who always seems to be here. My walls are torn open, have been torn open for a month, and I yearn for walls, peace, and privacy. I long for the walls to be whole, and I want to be outside of the walls, under the sky, watching lavender grow.
The cat is in the closet. The kittens are hidden under the blankets, inside the bed. I wince whenever some horrible sound of beams or pipes being sawed shakes the house. My head hurts. The water is turned off. What can you do when the source of life is suspended? Hold still. Hide. Wait until you can come out to drink, bathe, and sing like a bird again.
The plumber means well. I think. At least, he is only doing his job. Thanks to him, all the aforementioned drinking, bathing, and washing may resume soon and continue every day without water pooling under floors and over ceilings, and dripping behind walls, expanding into grotesque damp patches and secret conclaves of mold. He’s like the doctor or the dentist. You may need him, but you don’t want him and can’t wait to wiggle away.
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