since 3 am or before, wake up, since I am moving stuff again in my sleep. One year, one month, and still someone fixates on the details. Where will the boxes come from, where do the piles come from, where's the cord file print rock wire hanger lotion clothes fit unfit coming from, supposed to go? Where to find a bulb for this lamp (I'll not get there in time, carrion comfort)? And where to leave it, find it before leaving? Visit the dumpsters at night, Salvation Army at night, Wegmans at night: find map enough for a year: though you can't buy tofu you can eat in this town: though you can get barbecue meatloaf at the deli: though you lose your cat the moment you arrive in the new house: heartbreak. You take heart, set the trap latch and the can of food under your new back door halogen each night and catch, at last, your vomit and shit-smeared raccoon the society would euthanize on your behalf if you don't get over your rabies shakes, take the poor devil back home, and set him free. I nearly shit my own pants when I found him and God he stank. Still that reek in the trunk when the damp settles in, bejeezus. This time last year I loaded him into the car, my coon, and missed my cat and Ithaca much as I bitched for six years about both. He was miserable, that guy. I got him: he'd lost his stuff. I wasn't sure, once I'd lifted the trap door and rattled the cage to set him off, he'd find it again. Haven't seen him since.
