Old joy, still joy; an ode

Dear Shabby-Chic-bedspread-that-I-love,

I must first say thank you. There, that is a good way to start this. Thank you. This is a love letter. And love letters should always start with gratitude.

Thank you for being the perfect shade of green. A green not to minty and not too leafy but somewhere in the middle. Feminine but powerful; fertility, new life. I appreciate the little pink and purple an blue flowers on you. You make me feel romantic and not childish. That is a hard sell, but you did it somehow.

Thank you for being there in Target 5 years ago on clearance in Cleveland, Ohio. I know you were still expensive for my Grad-School paycheck but I never, not once, regretted buying you. You looked so good in my light purple bedroom, and I found you in the most unexpected place. You were always meant to be mine, I said that about you sometimes, a sigh of pleasure as I did. People found it strange because I was, in fact, discussing my bedspread like a beloved pet. I couldn’t help it, sometimes magic just happens. Sometimes it’s in the form of a lovely tea house or the perfect library silence, a great grocery store or the hidden tiny lemonade stand. For me, this time, it was in the shape of you.

Thank you for holding me close in the good and bad times. On the phone with Mom laughing, laying with Mackenzie when she came to visit, or curled up in the living room with Katie watching a movie, even when Rickie would come over and rip every stitch of bedding off just to try and make me angry because I had it all so perfectly arranged. Bundling me in on Icy-cold Cleveland evenings, tucking me in after long nights dancing in the warehouse district, after a fragrant bath, for a nap before a show, in between rehearsals, with a book or a script or my journal, Netflix, even sometimes a cookie. The nights with the flu or a hangover, the night Mom-Mom died and I had just done two shows back to back. Thank you for bearing witness to all the love Peter and I shared, the whispering and giggling as well as the hard conversations. Thanks for seeing all that, all of this, it’s nice to know you were there with me to keep watch even when I was sleeping, vulnerable and unaware of anything but what my head was dreaming that night.

Thanks for letting me pile you high with scarves and clothes, pillows, sweatshirts and sometimes makeup. Thank you for your embrace after an opening night party, thank you for letting me cry over stupid things and not judging me. Thank you for letting me punch and wail in you over things not stupid at all but, in fact, very hard. I loved to make the bed because I couldn’t decide which side of the comforter I liked better so I needed to fold you just so because I wanted to see both. Silly, but perfect.

You’ve seen my very first apartment, wasn’t it cute? I miss that little space so much sometimes, don’t you? You probably do, because you were the most beautiful centerpiece and you looked just as good in Sunday sunlight as you do in the candlelight of an evening on a Thursday. You are cotton and soft and comfortable and I smile every time I look at you, even now.

But I feel sort of wistful looking at you now. I think it’s because I spent too much time looking back and remembering it all through rose colored glasses. And honestly, there was some bad stuff mixed up in there. Like the way the drumming would go all night from the apartment the floor below, or the fire alarm that was pulled at 3 in the morning in February. All those sleepless nights I tried to lull myself to bed with rain sounds on youtube. Those were not fun times. It was not all as lovely as a remember. But you were, you made me feel joy every time I looked at you. You still do. What bliss to love something so many years later! Not every purchase happens this way. (Trust me, I know.)

Jasmine told me to not be so sad about you, she said you still exist and therefore celebrate that we will have more adventures together, in a new apartment someday. Drew said loss sneaks up on you like this; a mundane thing becomes precious and you must look at it in both ways before moving your day along. They are both right. There is nothing to lament, you are exactly the same if not a little worn around the edges, but lets be honest, so am I.

I am so glad you are still mine, that you forgive me for packing you away for so long. That you don’t mind that I don’t sigh with pleasure as much about you any more because I simply don’t see you as often. It doesn’t mean I love you any less. It just means I have lost, a bit, lately, the feeling of being grateful in the moment for what I have that I can’t see.

This is me trying to rectify my churlish behavior, this is me loving something mundane and full of memories. This is me finding home within an object that was bought simply for my own pleasure (as well as function) that I still find giddy girlish glee and whimsy in.

Your friend,

P.S. Wait until you see the next apartment , you will love it and I will not leave you behind. We have many things to do you and I. And most of them involve cookies.

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