Seeing Green.

My desk is stocked with green pens, the finest tip. Of all the art on my walls, it is the lush green stone cut lithograph that I prefer. When my parents eventually slide into that gentle good night, they are well aware that it is the expansive green stone cut on their wall that would ensure my fond remembrances, everlasting.

Of the features I awkwardly accept as my own, it is my eyes that I find most comfortable. Spring green in laughter. Dark forests in anger. The color of moss wet with sadness.

My birthstone is a gentle lime green, my dishes a set of pottery washed in the color of wet ferns. I am strong in the ivory skirt adorned with feathery leaves, adventurous in the tweed mini. In boarding school, I reveled in the forest green black watch kilt that swung far above the knees it was meant to reach.

One false move, and I’ll be covered in green ooze.

In 24 hours, the crystalline waters of my swimming pool have devolved into a cesspool of algae and stagnation. Koi would decline these waters, and at any moment I am expecting the Swamp Thing to emerge. And because I am “woman without able man,” it falls to me to … er … jump into the pool and find a solution to this fetid situation.

The thought of which has me feeling green and seeing red.

My home has reached a certain age where the bones are becoming brittle and the potential for hip replacements is increasingly likely. And in the past two weeks, I have seen green move from my hand to theirs as I’ve had to repair the air conditioner, the garage door and the irrigation system.

And now this. In the dead of summer. In the desert.

Which is why I am seeing green far beyond the algae-infested pool and the disappearing dollars. In the first chapter of my life, I never questioned why the house and the cars and the pool functioned without interruption. How bike tires were repaired, and sprinklers never stopped. And he never questioned why bedtimes were what they were, when bills were paid and why the work suitcase was in the hall again. Everything worked. Because we worked at it.

But since I have been left to fend for myself, the car has died, the pool is problematic, leaks linger on without stoppage and the garage full of tools has overwhelmed me with its lack of direction and purpose. Seemingly inconsequential needs have become insurmountable in frustration and, deep inside, the prideful and lonely part of me has accepted and struggled through uncharted territory, reluctant to ask for help and see inconvenience flash in eyes and mistrust in others.

While envy flashes in the green of mine.

Sucking Air.

It was easy to miss at first. And then one day it happened. And then it happened again. And again. Again and again and again. Staring at the proof scattered across the floor like little snowflakes, I can’t hide from it anymore. After all we’ve been through, it’s leaving me.

My Dyson is dying.

It doesn’t seem possible. It looks the same as the day we brought it home, its canary yellow drum bursting with pride as it out-sucked the competition. But just like women whose taut exteriors are simply well-crafted storefronts concealing clutter, cobwebs and decay, its eternally sunny demeanor cannot hide the simple fact that my beloved Dyson is failing. Most women dream about dust-and-hair-free baseboards. Not me. My two cherubs leave a trail of tiny slivers of popcorn, cracker and fruit snacks on the carpet, under the couch and between the cushions.

Baseboards be damned. All I want is a couch that doesn’t snap, crackle or pop.

But the couch has now been ousted as the next “replacement,” an unexpected departure that I’m neither ready for nor am I equipped to deal with. After all, it’s not as though another Dyson is waiting to step … er, roll … onto the carpet.

Just like there wasn’t an extra bed. Pool motor, fire alarm, television projector lamp, fridge filter, toaster oven, beta fish, laptop, car, phone, garbage disposal or dog. And there was no backup plan to address cleaning toilets and taking out the garbage following his premature and unapproved departure.

It’s as though the house and everything in it started to fall apart the moment he was no longer an active participant in it. And the breakage has continued unabated ever since. Some relatively minor and others undeniably major, each is an unwelcome distraction that is as mentally draining as it is financially. Each one a reminder that the life we had built would never work exactly the way we had envisioned.

They are, for the most part, simply objects. Tangible elements of the lives that we all build, proof of our achievements and the building blocks that surround our partnerships in in life. A broken pool motor simply means that a green ecosystem enjoys a brief jaunt before being chemically doused. A fire alarm is a trip to the store and then one from a fancy red truck. A television lamp is a week’s worth of childish anger and better time spent together.

But it is the Dyson that has me melancholy. It was a simple purchase, made when we closed one door and opened a larger one to the future. Proof that our dreams were becoming reality. Moving slowly over the carpet and listening to the weakening hum that is both the passing of strength and time, I find myself drifting back to a time when a buying a vacuum cleaner meant so much more. And then I remember. 

This time I can get one in purple.