Living With a Hoarder

A nightmare transports me back to him:

my ex-husband, the house on Linfield: windows

he refused to open, black mold that crept up walls 

like intricate lace, pink mildew

slimed the bathroom ceiling, the whole place

muggy, stale. In the basement, stench

of ammonia-soaked litter boxes. I wake

relieved, grateful, shuffle to the kitchen,

bathrobe untied, fill the kettle halfway

& though it’s been years, wonder: Does the roof

still leak? I sip coffee, Google a recent photo,

glide my thumb & forefinger apart

for a closeup: two dead cars

line the driveway, two more

on the street. Grimy windows, blinds broken

& shut tight. Are three air compressors

still crammed in the garage? Are mice

still nesting in the walls, dining room

chest-high in unread magazines,

wrinkled newspapers? He blamed the first wife,

then me. Therapy didn’t help, medication —

refused. Whose fault is it now?

In the search box, I type

“living with a hoarder,” discover his

third wife’s essay: antique stove

destroyed by rodents, refrigerator too,

rotting floorboards, dead cat

under a mound of papers. I track down

Building Code violations, Health Department

complaints, a decade of fines, liens,

Orders of Abatement — none resolved. Eighteen years

I’ve lived alone, my second floor apartment

rehabbed before move-in: new roof, insulation,

double-pane windows. A palm tree

shades the front yard, bougainvillea

weaves through the redwood fence. Everything

has its place. When I clean, the scent

of cedar wood. Cooking, the sweet & sharp

onion, pungent garlic. I believed love

was enough to save him, stayed

until I realized compromise was really

concession. The first wife got out

in eight years; third wife, six.

It took me twelve. 

McDonald’s: Fairbanks, Alaska

Sunday afternoon before the movie

breaks, I’m on line with the military

in faded fatigues, kids with cars & no place else

to go, couples with kids who missed dinner

after church, die-hards who walked a mile

for a quarter pounder, bearded men in rubber boots

& soiled parkas, brown canvas coveralls, here

for the once-a-month supply run they’ll lug

back to half built cabins, 50 miles

from town, accessible only by 4 X 4

or snow-go. Billions served & I’ve eaten a good

thousand since my father and I rumbled down

Nostrand Avenue in the ‘57 Dodge

to that glowing yellow arch & I savored a Big Mac,

fries, apple pie, chocolate shake, lusted for it

every Sunday for years. I’m on line now,

in a franchise said to have sold more burgers

than any in the Lower 48. On line with homesteaders

in matching blue windbreakers, logo of a bar

or union on the back, on line with Native women

in flowered kuspuks, babies deftly fitted

into their hoods, on line with gold miners

& security guards who wished they were cops,

on line with a frenzy of women living in

hollowed out school busses, formaldehyde

trailers, sinking cabins, whose hands are always

cold. The line dwindles, then replenishes

itself. I get a seat by the window, open

the bag. I dig in, every chance I get.