Waving Not Drowning

Craig is a happy guy. A good guy, a kind guy. An everybody-likes-him guy. Kind and caring, listens when you talk. A give you the shirt off his back guy. Which evidently he has done because Craig is now wandering around the grocery store shirtless, in brand new lime green sneakers, complaining to anyone within earshot that today is the day. No more Mister Nice Guy. He's brandishing a japanese eggplant, which in itself is weird seeing as Craig's not a nightshade guy, per se. In the crook of his other elbow is his basket, overflowing with paper towel paper and bananas, a jar of olives, two limes and a kiwi, a rotisserie chicken, side of potato salad, purple Gatorade, and 2 packages of mini Mars bars. It's day 187 of lockdown and evidently Craig's had enough. His job disappeared day one so the first 4 and a half months were spent volunteering, distributing PPE to frontline workers. Then onto baking Bavarian soft pretzels and curating five types of spicy mustard dips.

No one likes a puker, Doris. I've told you that a thousand times. You either learn to keep it down or stop it from starting in the first place. I am tired of cleaning up after you. Enough already. You're not a kitten anymore. And it's not like you spend your days grass grazing on the back forty like Bob's cats down the way. Slow down. SLOW DOWN, I say. But no.  Food goes in the bowl and BOOM, like a black hole or tornado. The Tasmanian Devil, a whirling dervish snarfing it up like there will never be another score. I should have empathy. I should. I DO, I really do. It's just you're so good for a week or four and then blammo, like a cartoon character, projectile vomit streams across the floor. A torrent of fetid, viscous mush, resting in a pool of yellow bile.  I'm on the fourth rug now, you hear me? FOURTH. I'm not made of money, you know. Most of that goes to your fancy ass  vet-only dry food and low fat "mature cat" tinned food. You delica

It's too long. This endless time which she finds herself focused on. Day in and day out. The monotony, the sameness. Is it Tuesday? Or Monday. No, Tuesday. Again. Still. What she hasn't done is laundry. The discovery of an endless supply of underwear- most she never wears because who wears boy cut lace half-thongs in magenta that were purchased on sale in a three pack bundle? But go long enough without laundry and there they are, crumpled in a ball at the bottom of the drawer behind yet another boy cut brief with Everlast on the elastic, so old she can't remember their origin story. In the grand scheme of things, this is but a blip in the ocean of her life. Five decades, and this is a couple of months, maybe a year or more when all is said and done. But the not knowing. The constant hum of high alert while suspended in ignorance of how we move forward is absolutely exhausting. Tinnitus of the mind. She can write. Bake. Clean. Walk. Read. Watch. Laugh. Scream. Cry. B

Go. Get on that plane, that train, that bus. Walk if you have to. Swim, we've got great lakes and oceans and rivers. So many bodies of water and tracts of land to get across. Find a way, they said, just get here, soon. And so Tally packed a bag with just the essentials: a blueberry corn muffin with a shmear of cream cheese, her well worn pocket stone she rubs in her left hand, a packet of mints from the drive in theatre, and two pineapple juice boxes. A clean pair of socks, some dental floss, mom's old cigarette lighter she stole off her bureau, and twenty three dollars and eighty five cents in change. That was the heaviest part of her backpack. She wondered if she was forgetting something but her mind raced with all the things at once. Will her shoes be comfortable on the long journey? Did she feed the cockatiel before she left the house? How can she get across the ocean if the boats aren't docking in the harbour anymore? What if she runs out of money? Will Joseph be

If he can make it off the couch to the kitchen, then he'll be up and at 'em. Movement is motion and motion is energy and like a battery, he'll recharge. Feel better. Or different. Good enough. Long nights of hourly wake ups, followed by the struggle to quiet his mind. Loop, loop, looping through endless thoughts of what if and who will and I should and maybe they'll but just go to sleep. Sleep. No tech in his room, just sleep and sex. Although physical touch has been lacking. Wanting. Week seven, but who's counting.  And that's just sheltering in place. Before that, well...seasons. The sky is bright. City living with no light pollution is like life at the cottage on Lac St Joseph. There are meteors tonight, a shower or falling or maybe it's his brain playing tricks on his eyes. Looking for things  he can't possibly see. Four missed calls. Thirteen notifications. No one he's pining for so it's a wash. Is it too late to get up... too early

Hi, sorry I missed your call. I was busy sitting idly staring into the vortex of my social media feeds while trying to balance the voices in my head that alternate between Josh Charles in Dead Poet's Society: "Gotta do more, Gotta be more!" *noodly noodly sax break* and the crippling sound of my own self worth and identity as a functional, productive member of society leveled at the knees by a world wide pandemic, stuck inside a small box in the sky, debating over frozen quick bread or cookies or 5 layer lasagna for breakfast. A sound I've yet to articulate outside of a primal yawp. More of a constant hum and giddy-up stutter step in my chest, traveling at light speed whenever I dare venture out of doors. Where's your mask, where's your mask, WHERE IS YOUR MASK. Something like that, if truth be told. So yes, I was home, just didn't feel like taking your call. A call made out of the blue from a stranger acquaintance I've not heard from for decades

A carton of milk, loaf of bread, stick of butter. That's it, right? She thought for sure it was carton but Jamie thinks it's quart. Huh, maybe there's a regional difference. Not that it matters. It's been floating through her head every time she remembers another item to add to the grocery list. The constantly changing, ever growing, all encompassing list that at some point will be fulfilled. Maybe today, if she feels courageous enough to go outside. Get all kitted up. It's like snow days when she was 5: layer after layer, scarf, hat, goggles, gloves. Just in case. Then inevitably she'd have to pee. Mom would get so angry. She'd hold it in sometimes only to suffer through the consequences in the minus stupid Quebec winter. Freezing and damp and crusty. To look at her hands you'd swear it was mid January in Saskatoon. Chapped and cracked from relentless washing and wiping. No point in moisturizing as no sooner does she repair the damage then she touches h

It won't be long now. Soon, he said. Soon. When there's no light left to rise and no moon to wax and wane then you will know. And it will be time. Better yet, I'll know. Trust in me that I will know when it's time to go. He's been talking about the end for a while now. More so since his last fall. A good life, he says; no- a Great Life, all told. Filled with purpose and reward, intellectual and financial. Emotionally engaged, well tended. Freedom of movement and exploration, of the world, of ideas. Of humankind. Privilege not afforded many. But kind. Above all else, kind. The body is transparent. Adaptive, compensatory, until it no longer bends but breaks. Slows down, degrades.  Yields to impending forces. Of age. Infirmity. A loss of autonomy. He's not one to ask for help. Not prideful; conscientious. Unwilling to burden anyone other than himself. The desire for dignity in death is paramount. To see the end as a beginning to whatever the en

Now this is worth celebrating. We've made it through. All the way to the other side. The unknown. Granted, we're not really sure if this is the other side so much as the end of some sort of time or journey but hip hip hooray, here we all are. Most of us. Some of us got left behind. Forgotten. Passed away. No, not dead, they just passed us going the other way. Carl thought we should give them a head's up to the fact that maybe they were moving in the wrong direction, but I said, Carl, remember- you never know where someone's coming from or where they're going. Everyone is on their own journey. Maybe they're going the right direction for them. Carl does his tight head waggle and starts to speak then his lips purse and he turns away from me to keep moving. Through, he said, we're moving through, not doubling back.  They can't possibly be on the right path. I don't know what you think this entire journey has been about, Arvid, but I'm sure as heck n

Her heart hurts. This incessant pressure, knowing things will never be the same. She's crushed under the weight of failed expectations. Possibility is endless until it's stopped in it's tracks. Derailed. Rerouted. Obliterated. She takes a long pull from her thermal water bottle, a bridesmaid's gift from Layla and Ahmed's wedding last summer. It's got a Today's The Day decal on one side and Julie's H2O on the other, dented on the bottom now so it stands off kilter. The leaning tower of teal.  Contrary to her repeated requests, Dan still puts it in the dishwasher instead of hand washing. Of course, if he'd just leave it for her that would solve the problem but Dan does as Dan does, and a spotless kitchen and sanitized water bottle make Dan a happy man. Julie, on the hand, does not. It's not just the dishes. There's no joy anymore. No fun. Dan cooks and cleans, and Crossfits in the garage while learning Dutch and Portuguese on Babbel, in case

Now you listen to me. You sit yourself down, take a deep breath and disengage, you hear me? That's right. This is not your circus, these are not your monkeys- sorry, not your clowns- I know how much you abhor animals in entertainment. Don't want to get you sidetracked here. Alright. Now. What can you do right here, right now, to make a difference? I'm serious, this is a very real question I'm asking you. Don't look at me that way Linda, do not give me that look. I know that look, it says I'm gonna pretend to listen when really you're ignoring me behind your eyes. I know you are. Yes Linda, you are. Linda sighs. She drops her chin and peers up through the bottom of those crazy long lashes that curl up for days. Such a gorgeous face. So hard to stay angry with her for long, this one. She's got Trudy wrapped around her little finger. Paw, actually. Her curly coated, apricot coloured, overpriced and overbred labra-schnoodle-cross paw. You'd think for

Oh Arlene, I think he's smitten, I really do. How can I tell? Please. Did you not see him staring at you the entire call.  He was eye locked onto your square the entire time, I could see it plain as day, at least from where I was sitting. Mind you my monitor isn't as big and fancy as yours, but even so; Bradley was only interested in you. And not to be whatever, but it's not like you were leading the charge on conversation either. You sat there pretty much on display for him to admire. Don't get me wrong- get it where you can, honey. Pickings are slim, especially the longer we're stuck in this. Men our age are dropping like flies because they're too stupid and stubborn to stay home. Going off to get themselves infected tossing a football around in the back yard with their neighbours, or like that skinny fellow, what's his name, the marathon man at the end of your street with the accent, always running like his feet are on fire. Sweat flying off him like a

Tell me why. I want to hear it in your words, without me having to prompt you. Asking you, manipulating you in ways that make me feel like I'm not worthy of love to begin with. That whatever love you have to give surely isn't meant for me. Someone like me. Needy. Used up. Conflicted, complicated, unsteady. Unlovable. You said that once. That I was unlovable. Maybe it wasn't you, but it's been said, time and again. As if it's my job to make myself lovable. Deserving of love, which we all are, from birth. Our birthright. So I'm told. You should be more openhearted. Less quick to judge. You're changeable. You go from zero to 90 in seconds flat.You're unreliable, inconsistent. One day your up, the next you're at the bottom of a well and you pull the ladder in behind you. I don't think you're happy. Me telling you I love you won't change that. Try, I said. Go ahead. Find space somewhere within that compartmentalized heart of yours. Yo

"First, do no harm. Second, do your best until you know better then, third, do better." Jake stares at her eyebrows. Actually the space between her eyes so it looks like he's making eye contact but he's avoiding her eye line completely. He saw that in a movie once and stole it. Not that he doesn't want to look at her, but he finds it uncomfortable to sit in a chair for an hour, across from this middle aged woman he just met and tell her his life story. It's a lot. "Ok Jake, yes, that technically answers my question but I have to be honest with you- I'm not buying it. Sounds pretty rote to me, like something you've learned to say to keep people happy and stop them from continuing to engage. When I ask you for three principles you live by I would like more than a Yogi Tea bag quote. How about you try again, hm?" Janice does this thing with her head, a soft side tilt while raising her brows and giving what must be an unconscious nod. Jake figur

You don't have to worry because I've got this. You just calm your sweet self down and let me figure this out, all right? Alright alright alright, hehehe.... Ok, yeah.  Yup. I know. I know, I won't- I won't say that. Ok. ALRIGHT. YES. You used to love it when I....ok, right, no, got it. Yup. Clear as can be. Crystal freakin clear, Judith. What. What. Now wait, hold on- no. That's not true. Do not say that. I did not say that, Judith. No I did not. That is NOT what I meant,  and I think you know- Hey. Hey! Judith. Jude. Ju- *sigh* I apologize. I shouldn't have diminished your response, that was disrespectful and patronizing. When I am being glib you feel belittled. I hear that, I do. Thank you. Yes, Judith, I really do. I am sorry. That was not my intention. I was merely trying to- Ok, I'll stop, just stop talking, yeah? I won't try to justify, or explain or clarify or illuminate. I won't impress, or cajole, or bedazzle, or lure

That light is great on you. Really. It's like magic hour, but just on your face. Amazing. Lucinda exhales, nods. A tight smile. A smize, her niece calls it. Her default expression when she's pretending to engage. The kid's a smartass. Definitely family. She's looking at the top of her screen, the glowing green dot, losing sight of Glen for a moment.  Video calls are their new norm. Luce struggles with where to look, her gaze roaming over the flattened pixelated surface, trying to make eye contact then realizing the futility of it all. The two of them staring into some fixed point in space, conscious of performative listening, so neither of them feels ignored. Can't risk that. Not when the internet connection is failing. She tilts her head up and angles it into the beam of light that peaks out over the market rooftop. 6:23 am, early May rise. Senses it across her brow. It streamlines through the sliding glass doors and a layer of sheers she hangs over the plasti

Six a.m. Subtle vibrations on her left wrist telling her to get a move on. It's time. Again. Trackers track and it's tracking her sleep. Heart rate. How much she moves in her sleep. A gentle thrumming that wakes her up in stages. Articulations. An arm here, then her neck. A deep, relentless ache that catches in her throat every time she turns her head. It's not the pillow, not at this point. Day what, 21, no, 23.  Another 78 to go. Something like that. Although there's no reason to get up. Not now, not really. The cat can wait, or will wait, unless she figures out how to open the bag of kibble on her own. Give her time. Time. Never has she been more aware of time. Pace and space and marking things off with incremental shifts of a second hand. Her phone quacks every two hours to remind her to get up. GET UP. Move, drink some water. Breathe. Don't check the clock. What's it matter, there's nowhere to be, no rehearsal or gig or appointment or client or e