And when we don’t say good-bye, it’s because we thinks our leaving fits between the second and third hello. But. (Or is it: Or?) At what point do we think that’s the last of it? The last of thefts, the last of totaled vehicles? The last of someone’s hello?
Some people wear their houses. I’ve had this written on a yellow Post-It note, stuck inside my laptop and every time I look at it, I wonder why I wrote that. Some people wear their houses on their sleeves. Whatever it is you want to know about them—the only thing you’ll learn will be superficial: where they live, the quality of their neighborhood, the color of their car. But: do they have, these homes they live in, do they have generous rugs?
E. B. White’s voice from the 1930’s: He knows my cupboard and my crumb.
In the course of sorting out stolen keys and credit cards, compromised IDs, the difference between common scheme and and deceptive practice, we’ve encountered the stranger’s hug, the warm concern from key merchants and police dispatchers, and lent gloves from unknown witnesses waiting at the curb. In this way, the disconnects in our dotted-life have begun to reconnect. Generosity of spirit appears from unlikely sleeves— from people whose houses are not apparent, and yet it seems they know where we are living now and why we’ve been losing sleep.
My swallows are smaller than yours.