I still dance in my dreams.
But not in my life. In my life, I wander around this too-large house, tossing whatever is within reach into the nearest cardboard box, not bothering to wrap anything in newspaper or to make sure the box labeled living room actually contains items from the living room. The movers are far more worried about my belongings than I am. As I’ve hit my fifties, I’ve found that the stuff that surrounds me every day has lost its charm. Like the clock on the fireplace mantel that I pick up, surprised at its heft. The darn thing hasn’t worked in a decade. Or the cast-iron Le Creuset pot that sits in a drawer doing absolutely nothing. I haven’t given a dinner party in ages, and I’m not about to start now. Some people end up hoarding their possessions, unable to get rid of the plastic bags that the groceries came in, but that’s not me. To be honest, I’m getting a kick out of seeing box after box go out the door, like a snake shedding its skin. Out the door and into the big truck, to be dropped off at the Salvation Army.
The few pieces that are left, including my antique bed and my favorite armchair, will be delivered to a sunny one-bedroom with high ceilings in Sutton Gardens, an independent-living community for the fifty-five-and-over set, where you can mind your own business in the comfort of your room or join in on a water-aerobics class, depending on the day. You would think that after independent living comes dependent living, but instead it’s “assisted,” which brings to mind someone delicately holding your elbow as you cross the street in the best of circumstances or offering extra leverage as you rise from the commode in the worst. Having been the assistant myself for many years, I know full well what’s involved. Finally, there’s the memory-care floor, which is a laugh because for most folks behind those locked doors, there aren’t that many memories left to be careful about. That’s not me, though. Not by a long shot. At fifty-five, I still have all my memories intact, thank you very much. There are days when I wouldn’t mind blocking out the more painful ones, but I have nothing to complain about, not yet. My doctors say my disease is progressing more slowly than most.
My new lodgings are just down the road from this house, so I’m not venturing very far. Even though Bronxville is only eighteen miles from Midtown Manhattan, it’s an oasis of green, renowned for its “stockbroker Tudor” houses, the term coined after the newly rich snapped them up in the 1920s and ’30s. People like my father, who was looking for a home that was close to the city but not too close, a place that showed he had good taste and a good job. My father never got tired of pointing out the slate roof and lead glass windows to visitors. He may not have been a stockbroker, but he was a company man and proud of it.
I look about my living room, almost expecting to see him drinking a scotch in his favorite armchair, and my throat tightens. “Let me help you with that.”