It’s not as if I feel that what I have to say is important, or even interesting to anyone else. But it’s interesting to me. And could conceivably then, be interesting to someone who cared for me. I’m not always terribly interested in listening to a litany of recent purchases of individual types of seeds or canning implements made during the last visit F— has made to Rural King, but since it’s important to him, I stop what I’m doing, and listen to him, I give him my attention, maintain eye contact for the duration. There are other things I’d prefer to give my attention to, but I love him, so I give him my attention for the few moments it takes for him to share this with me. Do I want to go and witness the dirt he’s recently tilled in the yard where he’s making a garden? Not really, I mean, it’s dirt. It’s pretty late in the season to begin a garden, it’s mid-May now. He’s just now beginning to till and buy seeds. But I get up and go and admire his tillage verbally, with smiles and hugs. I tell him what a good job he’s done. These are the things people do for the ones they love.
Why then does the attention part of it all feel so one-sided? I recognize that F— is thoughtful. He saved the caps off the plastic gallon jugs when he put them in the recycle bin as I’d asked because I explained that I wanted to make a cat toy with them. He’s good about that, he’ll buy me things if I voice a need. Voicing needs is incredibly difficult for me to do. Asking for help is crazy hard. I haven’t had a new bra or any underwear in YEARS. They’re rags. Clean rags, but rags nonetheless.
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