They got me when they thought they’d own this place forever.
“Forever” is a joke. It didn’t take me long to figure that out. Not even the simplest things between them last. Their everyday skirmishes make me squirm on the wall.
And they’re fighting over me today? I can’t be split into two, for sure. My angst is natural while I wait for this drama to unfold. It’s to do with me. Or is it? From what I’ve witnessed so far, this spat is probably not even about me.
Am I not on their who-takes-what lists? She’s meticulous, never forgets. Did she miss adding me? Oh wait, she has me on her list.
“That painting,” she says, wagging a finger at me without looking my way, “is my brother’s gift for the housewarming.”
True. So why is he bickering over me? Then again, he quarrels about everything. And she doesn’t not fight back, either. I like him when he’s nice to her sometimes; well, he always is—in front of others. But she doesn’t reciprocate even when they’re on their own. It’s not like her. Something must’ve happened before I came to reside on their wall.
“Gift.” He snickers. “What about those restaurant bills? Italian, Indian, Chinese—you name it.”
“Oh, that’s so like you! Counting even the dining bills. And we didn’t always pay. They did too, remember?” she says. “And their air tickets? San Diego to Chicago. Just because we got a new home.”
“I didn’t invite them. As I recall, neither did you.”
And as I recall, four years ago, when her brother and his family brought me here, there was laughter, movie-watching, and best of all, the sound of children running up and down the stairs. Thank goodness, these two have no children. The kids would’ve been anxious, like me, not knowing which parent they’d end up with.
I await the outcome. If I had hands, I’d bite my nails.
He won’t preserve me. He’d sell me on eBay or dump me in his next new home’s basement. His next new home, surely with a new wife.
She’d take care of me. And not merely because I’m her brother’s gift. She has taken care of me as though I were her infant, her fingers gentle while dusting and wiping me clean.
They’re still wrangling when she strides toward me. I worry she’ll take me off the wall, throw me at him. But, no. She stands still, scanning my lavender flowers, my green leaves. That familiar damask-rose fragrance I’ve caught a whiff of, whenever she’s walked past me, soothes me now. But my comfort is short-lived. Her resigned demeanor…is she ready to end this squabble? She doesn’t give up easily. So why now?
She should know I’d rather go with her. If I had a voice, I’d plead, “Take me with you.”
Her fingers run along the frame I’m cocooned in. That soothing touch. There’s tenderness in her tenacity, solace in her pain.
She walks away. If I had a heart—
Oh, this ache. Is it hers or mine? Regardless, it feels like it’s here forever.
