I heard an old man interviewed on the radio once, he was from Siberia, he was 107. When they asked him if he had any regrets he said he wished he had eaten more cream-filled donuts. I liked that, I try to remember it. Some days I just ask myself right out, if I die tomorrow will I have wished I ate a cream-filled donut today? Actually I prefer custard-filled and I have been known to pick up one or two after work. Sometimes, if it’s late, I get a little brandy too, for the stiffness. I’ve been cleaning so long each of the bones in my hands has its own ache. First thing I do when I get home, donut or no donut, is get into a tub because I really don’t like to smell like work at home. My dog, he can’t get enough, especially on days I clean the fryer.
Once I read about a dog who could smell your cancer before your doctor knows you have it. It was in a magazine that someone left in the restaurant. I’d like to meet that dog. Last week someone left a book in one of the booths in the back. It was about how to find peace of mind. I took it home. I haven’t had much time to read it because most nights after I leave the restaurant I go to my other job and clean there. But so far I like what the book is saying. It says go outside more. Be in nature more. I like that. It says that when you’re alone in nature that you should try to listen to yourself, try to hear your true self. At first I thought, what the hell does that mean?
Then I tried it. I was cutting through the park, it was early and no one was around. I could hear the sound of my feet on the path, it was familiar but somehow new, and that got me thinking that maybe there is a version of me that exists outside in nature. Without brandy and donuts, without rubber gloves, without aching hand bones, without the alarm clock, without the phone that rings my sister is calling, my mother is calling, cystic fibrosis is calling, the no-kill shelter needs more no-kill money, my sister, my mother, the girl who always wants to switch shifts. Maybe there’s a version of me I don’t know about yet. Maybe there’s a dog out there who can smell it.
Margaret Eaton lives in St. Louis, she dabbles in short fiction. Her story, Azra’s Fountain, was recently published in Opium online.