Cricket

I have a pet cricket.  Whenever I share this information, I am asked, “What’s his name?”  To which I reply, “I don’t know.”

I noticed my pet cricket a couple of weeks ago.  I have a fondness for crickets, as ugly as they are, I find their chipping soothing.  At first, I thought he may be in the house, but upon further inspection, I determined that he resides in my garden.  This is the type of pet I can handle.  I don’t have to feed him, no poopy scooping, no license required, and most importantly, he doesn’t shed.  I don’t have to pay him any attention, but he is there to offer me minimum companionship.

I have been decorating my home for my favorite season, Autumn/Halloween.  I believe I’ve established a nice balance of both by using pumpkins and creating a goth alter to my parents.  Photos don’t do it justice, so you’ll just have to use your imagination.  I feel like this is the time of year when the veil between reality and the afterlife, thins.  Believe what you like, but I feel the presence of my parents in my daily life, some days more than others.

When sadness becomes my closest friend, I think it’s my mother’s presence.  She was a sad soul, kind and honest to a fault, which probably contributed to that.  Dad was a showman, hardworking and no time for being sad when there’s work to be done.  Of late, I’ve been working very hard to prepare our store for inventory.  It’s exciting to me to finally be able to see the results of my hard work.  However, when I arrive home, it all catches up to me.  I sit alone and ponder, if it’s all worth it. 

When I hear my pet cricket, it’s like hearing a little bell ring, to change the energy I’m feeling.  He makes me smile and helps me to remember, that this is the path I chose and I’m doing well.  I have a beautiful home where I feel safe and comfortable, I have food to eat, clean clothes to wear, and a satisfying job that allows me to have all those things.  Yet, I wonder, is it all worth it?  The work has taken a physical and emotional toll on me.  Twenty-six years of walking and kneeling on cement floors, throwing heavy loads of groceries, and dealing with the “special” customers that try to manipulate me.

Today, a Facebook memory knocked the wind out of me.  It was an image I posted eleven years ago of my father and brother, both of whom have passed.  I guess that’s the price of loving someone, the pain I feel when they are gone.  I try to focus on the love, but the pain can be overwhelming.  To try and cope with the wave of emotions, I went for a bike ride.  I haven’t been riding as much, so I’m wobblier these days.  Still, it felt good to get outside and enjoy the coolness of Autumn. 

I rode my usual path.  I enjoy looking at the homes of those more fortunate.  I swear, the moment I cross the busy street into their zip code, the atmosphere changes, it even smells nicer.  I ride pass the homes I have envied for decades, always wondering what it must be like to live there, it has to be wonderful, much better than I’ve ever known.

I was getting tired, even though it had only been ten minutes, I felt drained by this ride, so I headed back.  The road I was on was freshly paved, perfect in every sense; young, strong, and confident, something I haven’t felt in a very long time.  I made it back to the busy street that divides their zip code from mine.  It’s always a challenge to cross, and I mistakenly thought I had hit a pocket of calm.  I stopped too far into the street and had to back myself up to avoid being hit by a car.  In doing so, I lost my balance.  I tried to recuperate, but realized it was hopeless, and allowed myself to fall. 

How embarrassing, to be witnessed by folks from both zip codes.  Both were kind and repeatedly asked if I was okay.  I nodded as I rose and as the traffic cleared, I wobbled across the busy street, back to where I belong.  I gathered my senses, climbed back on my bike, and went home, in shame and disgust. 

When home, I opened the backdoor and began to climb the porch stairs.  After just one step, I collapsed in tears.  I hung my head and sobbed, not out of physical pain, but emotional.  Yes, I had hurt myself, but more importantly, I had embarrassed myself.  The public humiliation of being a wobbly, fat, old lady that fell off her bike, not even riding the bike, just trying to walk it back out of traffic. 

I managed to get myself into a seated position and I sat there, on the stairs, sobbing and then, I heard him.  My pet cricket began to chirp, like a bell ringing to change the energy of my situation.  I could hear my dad saying, “Stop your crying, there’s work to be done.”  So, I did.

I have a pet cricket.  His name is, Stanley.

#thelieswechoosetolivewith