At the right angle with the morning sun coming through the Tiffany lampshade looked furry due to a thin layer of animal hair attached to the glass by grease or film. You could say the same for most appliances in the kitchen, though the hair was easier to spot anytime, from any angle.

Related, upon finding a pair of white children’s bunny ears in the garage Charlotte told the story of her brief middle school cosplay phase, how someone had bullied her by slapping an angry note on her backpack but misspelled one of the words, labeling her a Fury Freak. Charlotte thought that was funny. Which made me think of my favorite song by Dinosaur Jr., “Little Fury Things”: I wondered if they were having fun with that word too.

The fur is especially pronounced when you take the time to vacuum, which we do maybe once a month. And so the evidence of that is all in the vacuum’s capsule, astounding how much and how dense. To think we coexist with that.

Then there is the fur (I think it’s fur) that’s somehow aligned to the glass on the inside of the oven which you can’t ignore when the oven light is on. I have tried many tricks (and chemicals) to remove this filth and still there is the residual schmutz. People really don’t like hair in or near their food; it seems unclean.

There is the fur that gets into the weave of the doormat by the back door. The fur that gangs around the lip of the porcelain sink, and adheres to whatever soapy or toothpaste spit-like material we’ve left there on the surface. That material acts as a flypaper for the fur, they commingle. The fur in the car of course, if you’re dumb enough to allow animals in your car. The fur that clings to the insides of the windows if you look hard enough (pro tip: don’t).

(Later)

What does it all matter? That thought in the hammock having just finished one of these Gary Snyder poems before a nap.

What does it all matter. The recurring question that changes shape as we get older. Thinking about my uncle living alone in his mobile home, the arc of his days, the vast stores of love he holds for us, how he’s found contentment in his old age. How some people seem to age well, or it’s like they’re made for their elder years. Like you can see that in them when they’re younger, as if they’re practicing for senior living. Something to aspire towards vs. shy away from, perhaps.

What does it all matter, and how the answer shifts over time.

This hammock rocking side by side, some bird squawking from above. If the seasons are like the tides the sound of summer slowly going out. How peaceful to fall asleep like that as the tide recedes. All that matters then is knowing when it’s coming back and how to keep your sleeping bag dry.

What does it all matter, the sound and the furry? Maybe not as much as we think. Or none of it at all. How that could be a relief or a real bummer.

Categories: Creative Nonfiction, Memoir

Tags: Creative Nonfiction, journal writing, Memoir