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Over the kitchen sink, I talk to myself sometimes. Out loud, not in my head.
When our pet Moofi was around, he would be swimming in his little glass bowl and pretending to listen, opening his mouth every now and then for mute comments. But since he passed away, I am like someone who has lost her marbles.
Talking to myself helps to sort things out in my head. But sometimes, I feel I should have just let things be without putting them into words.
The other day, while I was talking away to myself about a sudden notice about moving house, A was looking up some stuff I had put in a letter stand on the counter. Among visiting cards, photos and envelopes, it had little quotes that I had scribbled on stick-on notes.
"It would feel like someone had died..." I talked to myself.
"A sudden move like this...a notice out of the blue...such comfort this house has given us for so many years...the friends we entertained...family who visited...neighbours we are affectionate with...to have this house razed to rubble...yes, it is about half a century old and coming apart, but we love it... and now to look for a new house...when summer is on the doorstep...will miss this house so much....the wild garden with its four broken chairs that we still use...the tree house that S built for A and her friends...the tyre hanging from a tree branch that children cannot resist swinging on...the faded yellow and green hammocks...and the wadi cats who have adopted us...we will miss them so much..."
"WHY DO YOU TALK SO MUCH WHEN YOU KNOW SO LITTLE?"
This question from A startled me.
Turning around, I asked her,
"Where did that come from?"
"Found it here, in your stuff. It is what God said to Job."
It was such a profound question. I needed to be reminded of it every time so I told A to display it in a place in a kitchen where I would see it whenever I talked to myself.
