text: She didn’t ever think she’d see the floor in this room again. But, low and behold, there it is. Rebecca DuMaul had forgotten what color it was. Blue speckled. It’s taken her months to dig her way to the bottom. Months. Cal was never organized. She fought some to try to change that. Some. But that was a no-win battle. It’s not like Becky was ever organized. How could she ever expect him to be any different. So much clutter remains in piles and boxes and tubs. Sticks. Foam swords. Legos, legos, and more legos. Lego creations Becky doesn’t have the heart to take apart. Battleships with tiny accessories in every section of the room. Not with the ship. Will she ever get the room as empty as her heart feels? Just like Cyndi said, there’s a hole in her heart that goes all the way to China. Cyndi sang the truth of it. She’s falling inside of the hole. Rebecca can’t bear the thought of getting rid of these memories. So much crap, really. She doesn’t know what to do with it all. Oh, sure. She knows she should just be pitching the stuff. Unfortunately, she’s emotionally attached to the objects. As if keeping them would transport her somehow back in time. Becky sprawls on the floor, crying. She did that last week, too. She wonders if that’s ever going to go away. And Cal is off in his own life now. She’s not part of it. Which is how it should be. He’s not dependent on her. He seems to have a good handle on life. Holding down a job, paying his bills, has his own place. A great girl who adores him. He’s treating her right, as far as Becky can tell. She wouldn’t want it any other way. Hell, when’s the last time she called her own parents? Or visited them? Yep, this is what she’s wanted for years now. Her freedom. The chance to cut and run. Rebuild a life somewhere new. Somewhere with opportunities and prospects. Lucrative prospects. So, why does it hurt so badly? Rebecca thinks she ought to be elated. On top of the world. Ready to run! Becky has nothing to show for the last few years, though. Nothing substantial at all. Oh, she’s written. Written plenty. Most of it’s sprawled in several notebooks. But nothing that means anything. Nothing published. No projects completed and sent out into the world. No public relations experience since 2012. She has no substantial or even relevant blurbs to line her resume with. She’s just been making the bills. Working jobs that pay the bills. Wherever she can get work is where she’s been working, regardless of what it does or doesn’t do for her career. Career. Ha! As if. She doesn’t have a career. She has daydreams of a career. Nightmares of nurses aid call lights going off incessantly. And now, nothing but emptiness and this horrible pain inside her gut. She can’t make that go away. She can’t sleep it away. Can’t drink it away. Can’t smoke it away, because she tried that too. What is she supposed to do for a career now, anyway? Her original plan was public relations. It doesn’t fit anymore. Not her. Not the her she is now, twenty years later. Would anybody actually hire her into an entry level PR position? Why would they? She’s out of date and out of touch. Lordt, Becky’s not even sure what she would know how to do now. Once, maybe even five years ago, she might have been able to run a decent PR campaign. But now? The thought makes her exhausted. She didn’t expect this. The pain. She didn’t expect how deep it would hurt. How empty she would feel. She’s an independent person. She likes being alone, for God’s sake. Why is she feeling...like this? What the hell is she supposed to do now? Where do people go from here? She’s like a cliche. Empty nesting. An out of work writer, who’s been drinking way too much. A single female with way too many cats. A damned cliche. Lifting up off the carpet, she sniffles. She wipes the damp from her cheeks with her hands. She considers everything in the room, piece by piece. Mount Everest of recollections looming. Always looming. “Well,” she tells the empty room, “I can cart those two boxes and the basket out today. Cal can use ‘em.” A cat reow’s in reply. She strokes the tuxedo’s fur, and another comes darting up to push his head into her hand. She reaches out her other hand to pet both. They don’t make this easy, even though they’re both insistent. She scritches them as best as she can when they are always keeping just out of reach. Like her life goals. Always just out of reach... “Sorry, guys. I gotta get in the shower now. No more time for the pity party.” They jump away indignantly as Rebecca shoves up to stand. “Uuugg...” she makes that old people sound as her bones fight moving after being on the floor. “Getting too old to be crawling around on the floor I guess,” she snorts, and the tears well up in her eyes again. Just a bit. Becky shakes it off. What is she gonna do with all this damn stuff? She could do something useful with the room if she could get this crap out of here. Rent it. Use it for crafts. Or an office. Hell, she could even have one of those foriegn exchange students stay here next year. She’d have some company then. And, it’d be interesting. But...the place is a wreck. The sink in the bathroom isn’t working, the roof is leaking, and the shower head needs to be fixed. It’s a long list. She’d never get approved. She’s not going to have the money to fix anything up anytime real soon. And then there’s the cats. Too many cats. Maybe she could find a home for some? Yeah, right. Everybody just keeps trying to give her more, not take them in. Oh, well. Maybe she’ll figure it out tomorrow. She’s got a job to get to and bills to pay. “Bye guys. I’m off to work. Behave!” she tells the collection of cats as she shuts the door behind her. Lauper blares as she turns the engine over in her minivan. “You gotta fill it up with love before I fall inside oof....” How in tarnation that cassette tape has survived without warping or getting lost over the last three decades, she’ll never know Three decades. Maybe today she’ll just leave the radio off on her drive to work.