The drain

I delayed, postponed, and pushed the workshop room for as far as I could, but today it's due. I've got the cardboard boxes lying on the ground, I'm resisting this badly, but I really must get packing. I took my cold shower to kick start the day, but the weeping started as soon as I was out of the bathroom. Needless to say, heart is very heavy. A pigeon visited the bathroom window and starting cooing as I was standing in between the three doors, unable to move, crippled with tears and the gush of emotions. A dandelion sprouted from the drain in my balcony this morning. There hasn't been sun for days on end, but the days and nights keep turning. I have a Kora from Mali classical music on in the background, it's crying with me. 

Her room is not hers anymore, it's merely a spare room now, I come and go in it all the time. I also used it for storage during this transitioning period. How many more goodbyes until the move, I stopped counting. But the countdown is here, this is indeed the very last weekend. I must process it all, and leave as much as I can behind, once I step out.

I will be cleaning the bathtub for the last time soon. I will clear away any residue of the wasted love the few men I cared for washed away in the drain as I watched them shower, delighted at my presence and my quirkiness. The memories and what remains of it will be hopefully gone, or at least become faint, in the few years to come. 

Soon I will be back to the bathroom where I showered child Yasmina for many years and saw her grow in its mirror. There are memories of her. There are memories of us. There are memories of Chris, and I. My adolescence, my childhood, her father and our young love. All the many years and the cycles and phases. My mother, my brother, my sister, my friends. My father... My father. 

I don't know what I'm going to be stepping into, having only just recently managed to rid the apartment of her smell. Now I'm going to where she has been nesting for the last 9 months. Here is the re-birth again, I need to push her out, and through that pushing, I'm giving birth to both her and I. It's going to painful for us both, but that's how it usually is. Was all of this her chosing, her own making, or was it my own doing, or mere fate. Cutting chords is now due. Ctting the fucking umbilical cord. Cutting the chains. Cutting the damned shackles. Freeing the bird. Pulling out the anchor. Dropping the weights. Lift off. Sail away. 

A newly wed couple just rang me about my ad for the bedroom furniture. They're coming to take it in few hours. I cleaned it for the 3rd time recently. So much scrubbing away of the old, although nothing tangible. My OCD has been kicking in throughout this apartment clearing, but my mind hasn't lost it, despite the intensity of it all, and aren't I grateful.

It's just my heart now, needs attending to. And my achy body, plenty of rest. 

And perhaps maybe, 

Gentle touches.