In the three or four months before she died, my grandmother’s dog went blind and deaf and her limbs didn’t quite work anymore. When she needed to go outside or eat, she would wander in the general direction of her destination, bumping into things as she went. The thick, long fur of her Pomeranian heritage flounced back and forth as she did, folding forward with the impact, then back with the release. The dog’s name was Baby Girl. It had been a placeholder at first—something to call her until my grandmother figured out a more official title. After a while, though, she decided that Baby Girl was as good a name as any. There was no sense in forcing the poor, fluffy puppy to learn a whole new one. That little dog’s temporary descriptor became permanent—the full and official thing we said when we asked her if she wanted to go outside. “Come on, Baby Girl! Come on. Let’s go.” Whenever she got tired of running into things, she would plop down right where she was and huff. Resting her head on the beige carpet, her blue-clouded eyes pointed in no particular direction. Time for a nap. No one was getting anywhere fast. When she wanted dinner, though, she wanted it right then. She would bark and twist in circles at my grandmother’s feet. There was a hard and fast rule in the house that the dog didn’t get her dinner before five o’clock. My grandmother would leave her there, barking and twisting, until the hands on the clock above the china cabinet read the correct time. As Baby Girl’s furry limbs got older, her frantic dinner-circles became less circular—more oblong, triangular, and square. She kept twisting, though—falling in every direction as she did. I feel like her sometimes—that sweet, fluffy, yappy little dog. I think of her when I look back at myself a year ago and see someone so different from me today. I asked my father several weeks ago, as we ran down the bike path together, if this rate of change I’ve experienced is something that stays. “Do you always change this much? Every year? Or is it something restricted to youth?” “It’s something restricted to youth. You slow down.” “Good. I don’t think I could keep it up.” “But then you kind of miss it—changing and growing and learning so much.” It reminded me of a line my childhood pastor quoted once from a Christian book on marriage. “My wife has lived with at least five different men since we were wed—and each of the five has been me.” As I change, as I experience the pain and joy and endless confusion of growing up, as I run into things like Baby Girl did and have to course-correct, I am learning a lot. This year I graduated—without expecting to until March when some extra credits suddenly transferred in. My brother got married. He has a wife now. She’s lovely. I entered into my first romantic relationship with absolutely no idea what I was doing. I never dated in high school or college, and I had (have) a massive learning curve as a result. Six months later, I sat in a hot tub with friends—friends adult enough to be employed and in graduate school and the owners of a condo—and talked about it. “I learned a lot,” I said. I did. Round one of romance had been fast and intense, and ended painfully. Round two had developed very, very, very slowly and fizzled out in less than a fifth of the time it had taken to start. I learned that one was too fast and the other too slow. I learned that one was too much, the other too little. I learned how to kiss. I learned to let things be. I learned to break up, pick up, and move on. I told another boy I liked him. Friendships have changed this year. Some have gotten better and closer while others have faded or fallen away. There are a few new ones—casual work friends, a nice woman at church, and my priest, if he can be counted. I’ve read more articles than I thought possible on how to increase the odds of getting an interview for a job. I’ve applied to a lot. I’ve been accepted to one. I work at the front desk at a gym, earning the same pay grade that I had in high school. My grandfather has gotten sicker. He’s fading away. I get angry about it sometimes. Then I want to cry. I voted for Hillary. I studied hard for the GRE, took it, and did well. I applied to graduate school, got rejected, and wept. I took a deep breath and tried to let it go. Then I moped. Then I started looking for jobs again. I fumed at some of my relatives, but only on the inside. I packed up my room and went through my closet, taking a few things to Goodwill. The house—my parents’ house where I’ve been living—is going on the market this week. The realtor thinks it’s going to sell the first weekend. I always thought that I was supposed to leave the house, the house wasn’t supposed to leave me. I started a website. It’s starting to work. “How’s your life?” I asked my childhood friend on the phone, driving up I-5 late one night on my way back from visiting my friends with a condo and a hot tub. “Medium. Confusing. I’m graduating next year, which is far away, but isn’t far away at all, you know? And it’s hard to plan for the unknown.” Whenever Baby Girl tried to get outside, she would run into a lot of things on her way to the door. She would wander to the left, bump into the sofa, and reroute. Then she would hit the rocking chair, stand dazed for a moment, and wander off in another direction. Course correction occurred every few feet, her tiny body taking in stress and then striking off again, determined to reach the door. I’m running into a lot of things these days; figuring out where the furniture is and how much space I take up. Baby Girl always managed to get outside. I have to believe I will too.
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Rebecca Rose“There is some good in this world, and it's worth fighting for.” Archives
March 2017
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