Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Why I Wish My Name Were Veronica

So my husband reminded me of something during dinner last night. . .

In the middle of my Christmas-Mouse-Frenzy, I had a Guinea Pig as a house guest.

I've told you before how I think that the only way I survived my time in the mouse-house church building throughout the Christmas season was a repression technique that I assume victims of crime, abuse, war, and other horrid terrors employ so their brains don't have to think about the trauma.

And when I returned back home on Christmas Eve, after encountering that mouse,  I discovered that Veggie, returning for the holidays, had brought home with her Archie - a guinea pig that she had oh-so-sweetly volunteered to watch for a friend.  And I remember that particular daughter being quite upset when I insisted that the rodent take up residence in the basement instead of sharing a bedroom with her.  But somehow, despite the less-than-plush accommodations offered, the pig survived.  And I distinctly remember entering that basement on several occasions over the course of those days and seeing her younger sister holding and petting that pig from guinea with love and affection (for Trigger's never met an animal she didn't like. . .)


My lovely daughter was holding and petting Archie.  And I blocked it all out of my consciousness because of my overwhelming fear.

I never made the connection between Archie and the church mouse until tonight. 

And if Archie lived in my house for three days with no harm done, do you think he could come back?  And maybe I could touch him.   'Cause, you know, he has a name. . .and a cage. . . and he only eats the food that he's expressly given . . . and he couldn't tunnel his way into a church if you paid him. . . .and people like my daughters love him.

Oh Archie. . .  where are you?  
I want to be your Veronica. . .