I say that i'm moving on. I feel like i'm moving on, sometimes. But am I? After last night's storm i'm not quite sure i'm doing anything but jogging in circles pretending to be moving somewhere.
My name is Tina or Kristina depending on what period in my life you know me from. I don't prefer one name over the other but do like to write K's in cursive more than T's. And once, when I was a teenager my friend told me that the name Tina reminded him of the fat lady in a circus. I don't know why I remember that particular moment so clearly or why I think of a lady with a little tiny head and a big huge tattooed body named Tina, but I do. So most of time I'm Kristina. And all this name baggage from a guy named Cincinnatus.
I live in what used to be a grain barn with my 8 year old daughter Lily, a cat, a hampster, and since Sunday two goldfish but I'm sure that it will be just one goldfish after this week because one of them seems like it has suffered a goldfish stroke. "Bubbles" has been laying on the bottom of the tank on his side for three days now. He was still breathing this morning but is looking like a very pale version of the orange fish that he should be and has a crazed look in his eye. I'm sure that he is trying to send me a subliminal goldfish message to put him out of his misery but I can't do it. I prefer the long, drawn out, painful end to things which is why I am still married to a guy that I haven't lived with for two years.
It's nights like last nights storm that make me wonder if there is anything that I can salvage from my marriage to make it OK again. As I mentioned, I live in what used to be a barn that I affectionately call our tree house. I usually love it. In the daytime. When the wind isn't howling and making the trees scratch against the roof and the whole place wobble back and forth, creaking...reminding me that I am moments away from a Wizard of Oz experience. Those are the moments that I wish that someone was there with me to shush me back to sleep and reassure me that the 200 year old barn has sustained storms much worse than this. But there is no one there but me. And I have to be the one to shush Lily back to sleep and tell her that the storm is already passing even though i'm really planning our escape route and wondering if i'll be able to hold onto her if the whole place collapses around us.
I think that she feels safe. She crawls on top of me and falls back to sleep. So i've done OK with the storm. But the moving on part? I'm still wondering.