Bowing to the carpet—to investigate the yellow streak. I have come to hate the stench of urine. I don’t judge or malign the fact of urine—I hold no personal grudge. Urine is universal. But I loathe the smell. And entering the house today, acrid yellow vapors rushed up my nose. I hurried to mitigate the offensive odor by filling the carpet shampooer with soap and hot water and getting to work. The shampooer stands ready in its convenient corner for tomorrow’s use, for I will need it tomorrow, and the next day, etc. Noises, too, are triggering panicky heart beats and sweats. The squeals of school children running to the bus stop seem the screams of my mother in distress. The “thunk” of Mom’s magnetic shower door becomes the thud of my father falling. This morning’s Tchaikovsky bass drum booming might be, I wondered weirdly, Mom’s grief reaction to finding Dad dead in his recliner. Getting Dad situated in his new hospital bed, I felt zero confidence he could navigate the urinal in the night. I keep my bedroom door open at night now, listening for sounds I hope not to hear, lying awake in the quiet.
Rabbit Lane 