The home den is full of things that are not for eating. This is a rule I hear often. But the rules are soft, and the things are so very… tempting and there.
Today, the sun made a hot square on the floor. On the low table, a treasure gleamed. Commander Claire’s face-windows. They held the smell of her skin, of salt and morning, and a faint, clean scent of the outside world she sees through them. They were warm from her. My nose told me they were important. My mouth needed to know their truth.
They were not food. But they were interesting. They had a give to them, a crisp snap at the edges that spoke to my back teeth. The world, for a little while, became the taste of plastic and metal and her. I was learning its shape, my tongue tracing the path her ears take. When I was done, they held a new shape—one that held my story, too.
She found them. Her sound was not the happy one. I offered my fullest, softest eyes. Look. I have made them more. I have shared my breath with them. She did not understand the gift.
Later, the soft circles that go over her ears. They are like thick, dense mushrooms, but they hold the echo of all the voices she listens to. I simply wanted to hold them, too. To quiet the other voices and keep only the shape of her. I worried them free, a slow, patient project. The stuffing inside was a cloud of nothing. Disappointing.
Her hands took them. She made the low, rumbling word. “Bella.” I tilted my head. Let one ear flop. Yes? I am here. I was helping. These things seem to come apart. Should they?
The best treasure was in the dark cave by the door. Her running shoes. They hold whole worlds inside their smell: wet grass, hard path, old rain, her sweat, the ghost of every place we have been together. They are the most faithful of all her things. I needed to get closer to that story. My teeth found the little tree root of a lace and untied its secret. The rubber sole was tough, but I persevered. A small window opened, and the smell bloomed out, richer and truer than before. I was not destroying. I was opening.
Then, the flash of white! A sock, tumbling from the great noisy mouth of the washing machine. It dangled from her fingers. It moved. It was alive!
My body knew what to do before I did. A deep crouch. The wiggle in the haunches. She shook it. I launched. The chase was everything—the skid on the floor, the thunder of my own heart, the pure song of the game. She ran, I pursued. She turned, I zigged. It was a dance of the highest order. Her sounds were mixed—frustration and a laugh she tried to hide. I answered with the joy in my muscles. This! This is the best thing!
Now, the treasures have all gone away. The face-windows live on the high cliff where my nose cannot reach. The ear-mushrooms are behind a wooden wall. The shoes are in a tall, smooth cave.
I lie in my square of sun, tongue lolling. The taste of plastic and grass and cloud stuff is a memory on my teeth.
The rules are still soft. But I think I understand a little more. These things are not for keeping in my mouth. They are for waiting. They are the promise that she will return, pick them up, and fill them with herself again. And when she does, I will be here, remembering their stories, ready to follow her smell out into the wide, waiting world.
