Here in this far away world life in many is as I know it. In too many ways, unsettling ways it is familiar to me, a chapter I have lived through before.
The house I live in is the gathering spot for many local teens. It is also the catch your breath and sit by the fire for many of the older widows in the neighborhood.
All gather in the common room. In this land there are literally two houses. One is for cooking and sitting. The other is only for sleeping. The sleeping house has no heat. The common room has heat that sputters forth from the wood-burning stove. There is always an offer of coffee or food from the ever-placid Maya. It is one of the few houses in the village that has a big screen TV and a play station. Often there are as many as eight young men (up to the age of 20) playing games on the big screen and three older babbias (widows) chattering on stools in front of the fire. The house is all bustle and noise like Times Square of Tskalsminda. The cats come about seeking a crumb and a pat. In this flurry I dwell.
Before autumns chilling rains I often took to my “green room”, my bedroom to collect myself.
I live in a state of confusion and silence often. The language escapes me, and I am always trying to intuit what goes on.
The deluge of rains and chill of the room spur me from my sanctuary and I become like the feral cats seeking comfort. Instead the nosy common room agitates me. I feel like the Little Match Girl just looking in a window burning her matches, warmed briefly by the scene but still I dwell in the cold.
But it does temper me some and I loose myself in the mirage of bucolic farm family.
I cannot see that I am blind.
For months now I adapt, and adapt. It is a never-ending Girl Scout escapade. I will get a prize at the ceremony.
I get blinder and more silent.
I imagine I am on a vision quest or retreat; the scarcity of food, the cold the rains are shaping me, teaching me the spiritual strength of surrender and supplication.
I begin to hoard food, oats and apples, a diet not much different than that of the pigs. I sleep with my socks on my hands for warmth. When I got sick and could not mend I took medicinal vodka with tea and honey.
Now my vision is further blurred.
My sense is my kiwi colored room is not that of a haven. Not only is it cold but also things seem amuck. I misplace things, have damp clothes draped on the bed stand to dry. Things go missing. Money seems to disappear.
Am I loosing my bearings? Perhaps the house is haunted. Perhaps by the father who died seven years ago in a car accident?
His portrait looms in the gather room of the sleep house, in the picture his beer glass raised and his eyes twinkle. Since his death at age thirty-three his mother refuses to sleep in this part of the house.
Thing go poof in my room.
100 lari goes missing, a Diet Coke, a Snickers Bar that I put aside for the boy (14) just to bond and entice him into learning English are not to be found.
I walk about the village up the mountain road is the cemetery. I sit by the father’s grave. I chat with the carved image on the gravestone. I promise I will watch his children, especially his son.
I get duller as I adapt to this life. Still though I do not think I am crazy. I must assess. I leave a trap. I mark three twenty-dollar bills and leave them in the corner of my drawer. I pray that there will always be three bills there. To have an apparition come visit is even preferable to the thought that this family is the sneaking into my room, rooting through my things. Yet if three bills remain then perhaps I am becoming unhinged.
I count the bills, and then again. Only two remain. I question the family. All plead innocence. Maya is disturbed promises to get a lock. The daughter kisses the image of her father on the locket that hangs around her neck.
The gild is off the lily. Now I am an interloper to be endured having questioned the honor of this good family. We muddle through as people do. I buy more treats for Maya, bananas, and things that she loves. I buy more Snickers for Nordari.
“Love bears all.” Even if there has been a theft I must hold my heart open.
Once in life I was a boundless thief. Nothing was sacred. No one exempt. Coins, food, trinkets. I justified my stealing my adaption to being a poor.
When babysitting I took liquor from the house and hid it in the bushes. Later scurrying in the dark so to bring the libation to a party. Shoplifting was done with a list .For my college textbooks my friend was the register clerk so I handed her a blank check. I had a kinship with the Fagin’s Lost Boys in Oliver Twist. The sport of it came to surpass the need.
So I understood how things “ go missing.”
But surely I think now that the theft has been unearthed I will not be victim again.
Recidivism in thievery is rare when the crime is brought to light. This I know from experience, having been caught by security at an elegant shopping store. It was not guilt but fear (and the fact that my accomplice’s my best friend Betsy Bowser ratted me out to her parents so she was no longer allowed to be in my company.)
Still I remain careful. I put my things deeper away, hid the big bills.
The greater work is in my heart.
The noise of my head screeching, “ I am violated”.
Still I want to stay in this house, though spare is a habitat for orphans. Churned up thoughts and noise are quieted by many walks and more prayer. I chose to forgive.
Life returns, the rhythm. The soup gets warmer and the stove gets hotter. The mother’s hearts drop their heartaches on the alter choosing to love again. Little kisses, foibles forgiven
Time though long is short so one must decide to live with the bruises of the heart that do not break it.
I want to burn holy candles in my room, cleanse it, and start afresh.
It is jarring to me upon returning home to find the Mitzi the cat in my room stunned by my arrival. She has just killed a mouse. She is proud. I am happy for her fleas filled self to habitate my room. Yet, the mouse troubles me. The symbolic meaning for mice is scrutiny. It suggests that there is a trap, and one must look more deeply.
There are elective mutes. Can one elect to be blind?
I do not want to see. I have to keep my eyes on the end, like a racehorse. I must persevere to completion.
I take a walk about, bringing five lari with me to pay a debt. I leave the other behind so that I have fare in the morning for my ride to the next town.
As things are so chilly I have the habit of tending my life after a walk. I set out my clothes arrange my purse. But, wait, did I not have five lari. left in my wallet. Am I crazy?
Also another candy bar is missing.
Perhaps thieves are trained. Perhaps they are orphans like Fagin’s charges. As a child I had much want and much need.
This boy think is ravenous, for candy, a father, and love.
I bring him to the cold house. His mother is away for the night. We sit.
I use the miracle of Google translate and speak to his heart.
Back in my teaching years my peers called
“ the priest” No one could lie to me.
This does not make me holy. This is because I have sinned greatly, been deceitful. I am a fallen soul indeed.
I look at this brown haired boy, too tall, too handsome, too much man for his fourteen years. His hair is tousled. He smells of cigarettes and sweat, days of sweat,
I compose to him. It reads like this.
You are young. My own son once stole from me. These things happen when you are young. I sometimes pray to your father. This time I must have the truth from you. (I am obliged to tell my agency of events such as these but I do not want the village, all 800-peasant folks to catch wind of the transgression of the son woman who sells the candles at the church.) If I do not get the truth I must call the police.
Then I directly asked him, “Have you stole money from me? ‘’
He hangs his head all puppy like, “ Yes”.
I weep, in relief that this dear boy has just unburdened and has taken a step towards maness. I weep under the iconic gaze of his father’s eyes piercing from the portrait. He seems a man, closer in this bold step of admission. I am a witness.
We agree to tell Maya. He agrees to talk with the priest.
Maya is informed ,further noise in the house. Perhaps she thinks me a temptress with all my bounty. Perhaps he will stop or perhaps not. I cannot know the outcome.
But for me, I have lived this before. I feel in a stage play where I have played all roles.
I am weary from these things. Yet these are the things of life.
I stole much in my life; time from employers, recently a fruit from a buffet. I have still many occasions of shame.
Once to my great shame my grandmother with cause, slapped my face. It stings still fifty years later. What I remember more though than the smarting flesh is how immediately after the slap she took me out for ice cream. She feed my mouthy spirit hunger with food and love.
So till I depart I will banish shame, and buy him Snickers and tousle his boy hair.
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