Absence

July 5 2015

When we moved the fridge,

easing out of its ruts

almost tipping, front feet stuck,

then squealing over old linoleum

onto cracked and yellowed floor.

Protesting, like a dead-beat tenant

evicted at dawn.

Revealing dust balls, big as tumbleweeds

the fossilized droppings of mice.

A virgin patch of tile,

unscuffed by traffic

untouched by sun.

The vacant space

in the corner of the kitchen

looked like a missing tooth;

as if the life of the room

had been pulled,

the place instantly desolate

wrecking ball ready to fall.

The old family cottage

that had been duly passed along

down 3 generations.

And now the 4th

that couldn’t be bothered.

When the vintage fridge

that had run for 60 years

-- compressor, wheezing on its springs, ticking over faithfully,

condensation

dripping down its back --

unexpectedly quit.

They don’t make them like this anymore, he shook his head,

then pronounced it unfixable

and offered to haul it off.

If only there was a ritual

to mark the passing of a fridge.

But it’s unbecoming

to get sentimental

over a clapped-out appliance,

even one that feels like a member of the family;

had seemed eternal

was there from the start.

We project life onto everything;

the ghost in the machine,

the soul

of inanimate objects.

The warm heart

at the centre of a home

keeping things cold.

The reliable hum

that filled the kitchen, comforting us

sounds unbearably loud.

The paradox of absence.

How sad

we notice it now.

I remember someone talking about an old family cabin and an ancient Frigidaire that refused to die: so unlike modern appliances, which are made for obsolescence. Technology moves too fast, and fashion has its own exigencies. But mostly, it's our unsustainable economy, in which it's cheaper to buy something new than fix something old. How very wrong when you can go out of business by building a product that lasts. Which is why I like the wry irony of the line quit unexpectedly: it's when something doesn't quit that we're surprised, not when it does. Especially after 60 years!

I realize that my fridge is getting on. Every time I hear it start up, I feel grateful. I think I've twice replaced the one in the city while this one hums on and on. (And as I write this, am manfully resisting superstitious thoughts about the power of suggestion!)

This idea of projecting life onto inanimate objects is very true. We tend to see the world in our own image. It starts as infants, investing plush toys with sentience. And accompanies us through life, blowing on dice, naming our cars. Computers are especially diabolical: how easily we're fooled by a few rudimentary tricks of artificial intelligence, talking back and forth. We want to believe. (Btw, I don't gamble and never name my cars!) As in many previous poems, I make liberal use of personification in this one: the feet, the squealing tenant, the virgin space, the pulled tooth, the life of the room, the faithfully wheezing retainer, the member of the family. Except in this case, it all gets nicely resolved when personification moves from a mere poetic device to an unequivocal statement about how we actually see machines.

I know I've previously written about this paradox of absence: a background sound you only hear when it's gone, that gets louder when it stops. I think it was a poem about a power failure. Again, the sound of the fridge. I'll have to go back into the archive, and see what -- if anything -- I've done differently this time.