“We’d be so less fragile if we were made from metal.” I sing that line over and over as I dust. Sometimes I get it wrong and sing, “We’d be far more mental if we were made of metal.”
I can’t remember the next lyric or really anything else about that song. Just that lyric over and over. Eleven words all lined up – twelve if you want to include the contraction.
I don’t remember where I originally heard that song, but I have a feeling that it was somewhere important. A hospital? A library? Maybe an airport. That would make sense.
But such considerations don’t matter. Getting my dusting done – THAT matters. I don’t like having a dusty house. Besides, the health inspector’s going to come soon. I don’t want him to catch dust on my potted plants. They’ve become so dusty these past few days. I don’t know why.
I stop my dusting and hold my feather duster aloft. There is an idea in my head. It’s trying so hard to come out. Something happened.
I’m not supposed to be dusting here all alone. Someone is supposed to be here with me! But who? Who is it? Think, woman. Think! Who is missing?
A name. If only I could remember his name. His? Who is this ‘his’?
I lower my feather duster.
Someone I knew.
Someone I loved so.
I want to remember this someone, but the hurt is too strong. I don’t want to remember. I want to forget.
I don’t want to think about his face.
I don’t want to remember his name.
Because it all still hurts.
I resume my dusting.
And softly sing, “We’d all be so less fragile if we were made from metal.”