ONE MORE THING

 

There is always one more thing to retrieve on your way out the door. Yesterday it was your hat and gloves. Today you searched blindly for your keys, as if you had been suddenly dropped into a stranger's disheveled living room. Tomorrow, who knows? It seems you are always fumbling through coat pockets, grocery bags, and drawers, always turning to check behind you. Things, after all, have a way of piling up on their own, never quite where you left them. This is when living alone becomes most precarious. You must set friendly traps around the house, signposts, always placing things back where you picked them up. You must recognize patterns, follow your own footsteps with intent. Each morning in the doorway, you must pat yourself down before allowing yourself to leave, recognizing each small, familiar shape in your clothing; touching your own hand once, then again, just for good measure.