2004-06-19 - 5:27 a.m.
Yesterday I walked away from the house, across the yard I kept mowed, by elephant ears I had planted. I sat in my car, smelling of latex, dogs, and warm greasy food, and looked at the house. Trying to keep a few things in my poor memory.
Like the kitchen window, with afternoon sun feeding the plant I saved. The dark dank basement my clients could rarely visit. The sensations of bathing and shaving others, of feeling the power in my legs and shoulders to lift and transfer others, of washing and braiding hair. The feeling of holding a 130-pound dog that has a history of attacking people, and laughing at his growls because I learned he gave me love growls. Three cats who loved me. The grape vines, falling and tangled passionately on the side of the house.
I was not born to be a housekeeper, but I identify with houses, with rooms. I will miss some of the spaces. I will miss one of the clients. I will miss the big mean dog and the fat cats. I helped keep a home going for a while, and now I step away to make room for another caretaker.
I started my car and drove away smiling. Because I'm ready to start working in earnest.
