The Story of the Turtle

Turtle

‘Oh, to be a turtle,’ she would say the hot July day we were moving again. That annual ritual picking up, boxing, packing, hiring a truck and moving at most 5 miles down the road to a place where you are sure will make you happier than the last.
‘We can’t be turtles,’ I said. Then recited a litany of the objects in the house that would not fit in a turtle shell, regardless of its size: silverware set, guitars, chest of drawers – even the collection of second hand bath towels was just too big.
If I did not have to pay for housing I believe that my lfe would be happier. I know it seems obvious, but I believe that even a prepaid one room in a crumby hotel would bring some sort of peace that cannot be found when one week out of every month is worked just to pay for shelter. I have begun to believe the old adage that we are owned by the thing we think we own. Especially those that still carry monthly payments.
Andrea used to be able to move everything she owned in the back of her Ford hatchback. I guess that is as close as we can ever come to being turtles. If I started all over again, I do not think I would collect records or books. They get heavy no matter how small the box you are putting them into is.
I believe I would collect air samples from cities around the world, crepe paper samples, helium-inflated balloons. I believe it would be alright with just her.
I don’t really want to be a turtle at all, as a matter of fact. It seems a lonely existence. For intimacy you would be hard-pressed. Your houses would come between you like Romeo and Juliet. It’s impossible to fit two turltes in one shell. Simply impossible. Let’s move and get it over with.