Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Redeeming Reg

Sometimes I find that a short course of aversion therapy can help me move on after a painful breakup. Once that has been accomplished I get to a point where I prefer to remember the man in question in a kinder light. You know, find that redeeming quality. Maybe to help me remember why I bothered getting involved in the first place. Which helps in the forgiveness/letting go department. Where I have recently arrived in regard to Reg. Earlier today I remembered a very sweet and vulnerable moment that caused me to think for just the length of time it took for the thought to cross my mind, could he be the one? might this man be worth the effort? As it turned out, no. But this made me feel hopeful. We were sitting in his office waiting for his computer to boot up and I was gazing into the glass cabinet where his camera collection was displayed. Not being an expert on antique or vintage or rare cameras, my eyes wandered from one to another in casual consideration. Until I noticed way over to the left on a lower shelf there was a can of Libby's pumpkin. I made mention of this fact. I was pretty sure it wasn't some sort of oddly disguised camera. Reg turned toward me and a wistful smile stole across his face. Yeah, he said, when my mom went into the nursing home my sister and I had to deal with selling her car and clearing out her apartment. I was cleaning up the interior of the car and found that can of pumpkin under the seat. I had no idea how long it had been there. I could close my eyes and just see mom a week or so later in the kitchen digging through the cupboard wondering where that damn can of pumpkin that she was sure she had purchased had gotten to. So I kept it and put it in there where I can see it every day. It makes me think of her and smile. Indeed, he had smiled when I asked about it. At that time, not quite nine months had passed since her death. Pretty endearing, if you ask me. And so much better to feel kindness toward someone rather than rancor. All it took was a memory of his mom. Thanks, Bessie. 

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