The Ringer

I woke up to the sound of bells, so I decided to follow
the ringing. I had just rounded the hairpin turn into the foyer
when I noticed that my mismatched slippers had brought
me straight to the site of my broken doorbell, which incidentally,
sometimes doubled as my doorway. The bell rang again.
For a moment, I wondered who in the world had the power
to ring my broken doorbell. But then, I felt a little sad
for a second, and I couldn’t quite think of anyone I’d even
wanted to see right then, powerful or not, so instead, I decided
to become captivated with my slippers. Sometimes, when I was
alone, I’d convinced myself that my slippers were mismatched
on purpose. You know, like as a wry statement, or something.
But in the end, I always remembered how you’d accidentally
sold one bear slipper and one duck slipper to that old German
widow at the last Anglican Church bazaar. I think our doorbell
broke that very day, too, come to think of it. I think it was also
the same day you left me after bumping me in the head with
a well-placed swing of our door. I heard bells on that day, too.
Yawning, I looked up and rubbed my eyes with the back of
my hand, and certain facts finally became clear. I was suddenly
convinced that the ringing wasn’t coming from the broken
doorbell at all. In fact, the ringing sounded somehow a bit too
methodical to be coming from the doorbell, broken or otherwise.
The ringing sounded soothing and oddly ritualistic in nature.
There was a droning quality to those ringing bells that
made me think about big wheelbarrows during the plague.
“Bring out your dead!” shouted a voice. “Bring out your dead!”
With bated breath, I reached out for the stiff doorknob,
and found that my mismatched slippers brought me straight
to the site of my trash pickup, which incidentally, sometimes
doubled as my driveway. As I looked up and down the
street, I was only mildly surprised to see a black bear pushing
a big wheelbarrow full of bodies. “Bring out your dead!”
shouted the black bear. The black bear had a white duck
perched upon his left shoulder, and it rang a cracked golden
bell every three paces or so. “Here,” I said, as I flagged
them down, “over here.” The black bear made eye contact
with me, nodded knowingly, and steered his wheelbarrow
into my driveway, past my mismatched slippers, and straight
through my doorway. I decided to walk back inside and see
what they had to offer. As I took in their selection I asked
the bear, “How come all of the dead bodies are cut into halves?”
“Quack,” said the duck, with a ring of his bell. “What he
means by that,” said the bear, “is something along the lines
of, Sometimes, being in love feels like falling apart.” I thought
about that for a second, and then I said, “I see.” But I didn’t
really see at all, so instead, I decided to become captivated
with the bodies. Sometimes when we were together, I’d
convinced myself that I my relationship with you ended on
purpose. You know, like as a conscious choice, or something.
But in the end, I always remembered how you’d emphatically
argued with that old German widow at the last Anglican Church
bazaar about the genuine need for an honest to God schism,
every now and then.