Cosmina and the Marquis de Sade - Page 2

Cosmina used to keep a small glass Mason jar on the kitchen table filled with dried fava beans next to a carafe of cheap wine that my mom almost spit up one day – mistaking the cool red liquid for Kool-aid – in a moment of un-relinquishing thirst and heat.  But Cosmina had made a promise to herself.  She vowed that every time my grandfather would saunter in late at night or not come home at all, she’d take a bean from the jar.  The level of beans didn’t seem to change very much over time – until one day the jar was empty.  And so was their love.  My grandfather never asked about the beans, but I’m sure he understood as I did later.  Cosmina would just smile at him and remove a shriveled bean from the jar while sitting alone in her kitchen, adding to the collection already tucked away tightly in her apron pocket.

I see this story now, as I did hearing it growing up, as some sort of undefined or ill-perceived punishment that was surely going to come my way if I didn’t behave.  I never met my grandfather; he passed away long before my sister and I were born.  But the lesson of the disappearing fava beans stuck in my head.  It was a subtle but effective way of keeping score, establishing boundaries, and discovering the tipping point.  I guess it might have been a little about patience and understanding as well, perhaps even forgiveness.  The latter I learned with great difficulty.  I carried that “bean-counter” mentality into the future, nurturing every petty grievance wrought against me until I too had no more beans left.  Those beans were my judge and jury.  My defense.  My witness.

Yep, I counted beans – kidney though, that way you could fit more into a jar.  It was a form of extended tolerance I guess, an extended warranty against major break-ups and difficult realities.  I kept mine in the sock drawer, tucked in back, under a pile of tighty-whiteys.  Had a bad day at work, a fight with my girl – any minutiae or injustice would do.  I felt vindicated.  A thorn lifted from my side.  The thing was the beans started to disappear at an alarming rate.  No returned voice mail, hap, a bean removed; missed dinner date, hap, another one gone; too many bills to pay, hap, hap, hap, three more tossed.  I was on a roll.  It felt good – ineffective, but satisfying nonetheless.  Then it happened, as it did to Cosmina: my jar was empty.  I had even less to commit to as yet another plate of unrequited love was served up and rejected, sent back, as my front door closed awkwardly behind me.  Oh well.

Article Author: Kevin Freitas

Kevin Freitas has been involved in art all his life. In no particular order he was once a gallery owner, artist, painting restorer, art transporter and now, arts blogger (oxymorart.com) and writer.

…

Visit Kevin Freitas's author page — Kevin Freitas's Blog