Soapbox Diner
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What's goin' on. |
03.27.07 |
All his stuff is gone now, everything but the broke down car and the dust where everything used to be. His family came to get it Sunday, and it was the first time I saw any of them since he was taken away.
They took the nice king sized bed and all the things that made this house homey. His art room is bare, our bedroom is bare, the living room - bear.
My girlfriend, who came over Sunday with her two teenagers for moral support, said it opened the house for me to decorate as I see fit. It just feels empty.
Her son helped me moved a dresser we had had in storage into the art room. That's where the foster child will be staying now, when that time comes.
Her son helped me pull my sad, too hard queen sized bed from the office/game room into the master. Her daughter helped me put the sheets and comforter on it. Now the office looks empty, too.
My friend made dinner. I made cake. She called it a celebration of a new life. I call it . . .
She's a good friend.
Brazen Hussy has another bed she's gonna give me for the foster child(ren). She's gonna give me her lawn mower, too. That will replace the one his family took when they removed his property. Funny, because he had told me he was gonna leave that for me. They said he wanted it so he could sell it. Personally, I look back to a conversation we'd all had a couple months ago, where they mentioned they were gonna be buying one this summer. I don't know, just seems odd to me that a man headed for prison would care about lawn care equipment.
Whatever. Just take it. If it means it's over and it's done, just take it. God bless.
Brazen Hussy said I can have her's, and her wheel barrel, too. Brazen Hussy doesn't charge me for her love.
Mr. T's sister said, "T gave me instructions on how to find the house key he hid in the back yard before the police came."
I said, "The locks have all be changed."
She said, "T has a letter he wanted me to share with you."
I read it. You know what? It didn't say a damn thing he hasn't said before. He loves us. He tried. Prison will kill him. Please don't do this to him.
He drew me a ladybug on his letter, because I used to be his Miss Ladybug. His mother asked me not to do this to him. He will be raped in prison.
I'm sorry, I can't be his protector anymore. I can't shelter him or guide him in the world or in his life anymore. I have to worry about my son, and myself.
His mom asked if I would be willing to speak to his attorney. I told her I didn't think I'd have a choice in that; the accused always has a right to face his accuser.
Isn't that funny, I said. I have all these titles now, Victim, Accuser, and not a damn one of them did I ask for.
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