Waving Not Drowning

He sits silently, tears streaming down his face, without shame or self consciousness. This is not how he was raised. Men don't cry. They are stoic in the face of adversity. Devoid of emotion. Indomitable. He hears his heart pulse in his ears, feels the flush of heat creeping into his cheeks, spilling down his neck under a mass of a thick, dense beard, sculpted tight to his jawline so as to not obscure the landscape of tattoos covering almost every inch of his body. His body. That in and of itself is monumental. Glorious. Hulking. Strong. Capable. Impenetrable. His shoulders shake and his breath comes in gasps, eyes soft and red from weeping. He takes a long, slow breath, closing his eyes, his hand lifts to his heart as his head drops softly toward his chest. He's beautiful like this. Open, available, transparent. The new normal. Wondrously so. He is lighter now. With compassion comes immense relief. No more anger or shame, blame or anxiety. Just release...

"I think that went well, don't you? Not too painful, I hope." Nothing's quite as inspiring as this man standing before her, flop sweating, blissfully unaware of his awkward courting. He means well, she knows this; but "not too painful" still involves a whole lotta work on her part. Oh, that's mean, she thinks. Bad, bad Julia. Be nice, play well with others. She glances at her phone and knows if she can extricate herself now there's still time to hustle home and pour herself a tumbler of Red Breast before she has to call it a night. Finally satiate her palate. It's clear to her. She likes her own company the best. She did discover a hip new local, though, populated with an unexpectedly queer positive crowd kitted out in matching plaid button-downs and ironically sloganed t shirts: I'm OK, You're OK. Their server was a close talker, gregarious, maybe high, maybe happy, with a pop culture awareness that disappeared at 1987. The ...

He places a cool cloth across her forehead. She's burning up, in and out of sleep, struggling. It's breaking his heart but he's so grateful to be here. His guitar lays at the foot of the bed. Gibson Les Paul Standard Gold Top, the one gift she got right. He played to her for hours, all her favourites, singing in that voice she loves, making up words if he forgot them. She didn't notice. If she did, she didn't care. She probably only hears him in waves anyway. She comes to then slides back under, the way tides ebb and flow at the full moon's passing. She's leaving him, this time for good. No more slamming doors or hanging up the phone. No cars speeding off down a dirt road, taillights fading while he stands alone in the ditch wondering how he's going to get back home. So much anger. Rage. Passion. Intensity. Disappointment and fear defined her until she exhausted him and her body in the process. Millions of cells, billions of molecules passing in the air ...

Another trip round the sun. Three hundred sixty five days, couple of blue moons, handful of seasons, myriad of cells sloughed off, regenerated and she's still here. One year older, arguably wiser, certainly more experienced with this thing called Life and all that entails. Every moment of every day carries within it the pure potential to swing wildly in or out of her favour so she's been practicing choice, adaptation, engagement, disentanglement, acceptance, forgiveness, righteous indignation, compassion, kindness and outright fear and anger wrapped in a bottomless pit of Now What? One more year, one more ring around the trunk. Roots grow deeper, sails bellow out a bit deeper and black and white becomes a tenuous shade of grey more often than not. The what ifs, the shoulda woulda coulda's mean something different now. That surprises her. Expect the unexpected. Better yet, lose all expectation. Investments are larger, losses are greater and the highs failed to manifest in an...

It's his father's face staring back at him from the fogged up mirror over the bathroom sink. Same high forehead, receding hairline, same soft chin, long ears. Hence the permanent three day growth. The bald spot on the back of the top of his skull is out of sight but every now and then he catches it peripherally in a window or in a candid shot or video. He's aging. Halfway through or thereabouts. This is who he's become, a mirror image of his younger father with an inkling of his mother around the edges. But it's his pop's demeanour- cool, calm, laid back- that he's spent a life time cultivating. A me-so-happy, why worry aloofness. Detachment to handle the anxiety. The insomnia. The busy, unquiet mind that keeps him humming and buzzing at all hours. The years of self abuse, of negative self talk, willful destructive habits and behaviours. Relationships are no fun so he just dabbles, always sits in reactive, playing willingly but disengaging at any sign of exp...

His lips move almost imperceptibly. It's difficult to make out what he's mouthing as he sits on the top bench of the bleachers watching rec league coed slowpitch. Sad eyes, beautiful skin, somewhere around 28. It's a hot, humid, oppressively sticky late summer eve and he's wearing a navy blue hoodie over a button down shirt, dark blue jeans, and innocuous sneakers, not too flashy but still sorta hip. He's clean, healthy looking, with good hands. He's perched, sitting very still; contained, but not tense. No air of anxiety. He could be high, maybe medicated. Every time she walks back from the plate to the bench they make eye contact. Hold it a beat too long. It's his eyes. Blue, clear, curious but not in a disarmingly strange way. He's watching the game, attentive to every pitch, every swing, hit and miss. When he looks away it's not with embarrassment or discomfort. He simply shifts focus while staying completely present. There's a languid, felin...

Dawn's cat died. Three months ago. She's been keeping him in her studio apartment in the old 1960's single door fridge with a spring loaded fold down pocket freezer compartment that's normally one solid block of ice. When Gus finally passed away at 17 years of age, riddled with tumours, blind from cataracts, incontinant and incessantly vocal, Dawn was inconsolable. She tells people it was a psychotic break, a total mental, emotional breakdown. She stopped showing up for work, begged off commitments to her animal rights weekly potlucks and even missed the chanting pizza monthly get togethers with the Krishnas. That was the worst as she cherished the communal atmosphere and free vegan gluten free pizza and raw desserts. Plus, no one looked at her sideways there. Her two toned grey and red hair, braided as it was 40 years ago when she was a school girl,  her uniform of athletic sandals, an armful of bracelets, short shorts worn year round, with tights in the winter, and a ...

It's a waiting game. She's made it through the first phase. Apparently her results are "acceptable" to move onto Phase Two. Then there's Phase Three, but she's confused as to whether Two and Three will overlap or run sequentially. Either or, the faster the better. It's the not knowing; waiting to learn if her body is "acceptable" on all counts. Lyne asked her today to find out about a blood match- that way they can see if they're even compatible for donation but when Stevie inquired, her transplant co ordinator said it's actually a tissue match, only done once the rest of the tests are underway. Now she waits for a CT abdominal scan, chest xray, stress echocardiogram and a GFR, or renal scan. Then she moves onto a psych evaluation before meeting with the Nephrologist because they really want to make sure she's emotionally and psychologically stable enough to donate an organ. There are questions: What if something goes wrong? What if a...

Greta is not looking forward to this conversation but it is happening whether she likes it or not. The mere thought of confrontation gives her all-over hives. That nauseating gut-drop where you feel like your insides are falling out through your pelvis? Yeah, that's what she is feeling right now, like she's nearing the top of the 90 degree drop on one of those insane new fangled roller coasters that are designed to scare the living shit out of you. In through her  nose, out through her nose. Deep cleansing breaths. Dammit, where's the tequila? I mean, really, that's what I need, she thinks. No, no, this is a time to stay stone cold sober and focus on what I want and how to impart that information without getting inappropriately personal or ringing big old bells that cannot be un rung. Un rung? Huh. Is that even a word? Okay, okay....Greta continues with the pep talk, the interior monologue of a varsity cheerleader, channeling her best Deepak Tony Iyanla Mandela Rumi sel...

How can someone be that ignorant? Beth is beside herself, shaking with fury, literally biting her tongue until she begins to taste that metallic sting of blood in the back of her throat. Thinking about things while standing in the checkout line, replaying the last three days over and over in her head, waiting to buy three new tea towels to replace the ones now burnt to a crisp along with a new mop head and three bottles of Lysol. This makes Beth shake and hum out loud, much to the disturbance of the woman ahead of her in line who shoulder checks with a look of curious irritation. Beth is wracking her brain- had Karen always been this filthy? When she stayed with her last year in Tahoe, Beth learned that Karen's idea of cleanliness was not on par with hers but then Karen flushed the toilet and took showers.  At least Beth thought so at the time. Karen's visit has turned Beth's apartment in a toxic waste zone. Twice Beth has had to clean her own toilet of crap sprayed all ove...

He knows, oh, he knows. He knows EXACTLY what he's doing. You. Sir. SIR! You with the Donlands transfer, yes YOU sir, don't pretend you can't hear me, I KNOW you hear me. You CAN NOT USE that transfer to get into the station; you HAVE TO GET OFF here- this is the LAST STOP for you, sir. The entire bus resonated with her bullhorn hawkishness. Middle aged, overflowing in her seat, with processed yellow hair and thick black lines drawn across her lids, she commandeered the 56 like she was driving the Secret Service's motorcade. This is what Kit's mom calls a harpy. Mean, crotchety, and righteously indignant. It was obvious to the rest of the riders that this older East Indian man who was apparently subverting the system by riding illegally with the wrong paper transfer was ignorant of his actions. He barely spoke English. She Ra of the Bus Co. ceaselessly berated and threatened this man in full voice at 1:30 on a Wednesday afternoon while driving through East York. An ...

Perspective is a choice. It doesn't matter how many times she tells herself this, how many affirmations she tapes to the wall next to the bathroom sink, her sense of perspective left the building long ago. She's been in the weeds for months. A dark, black hole of despair curdled with anger and deep, bewildering sadness. A slow processor. Jessie's friends are tired and wary. Let it go, move on, you're better off. Breathe. As if. Suddenly single with 2 small kids after thirteen years as Someone's Person rocked her sense of self, shattering her foundation. Pat didn't love her. He was playing at marriage with kids. He felt nothing but disappointment. Jess could fill tomes dedicated to disappointment, entire libraries. Risperdal took the edge off but she couldn't be high and keep it together for the girls. Grandparents, daycare, long runs on the seawall, primal screams in old growth forest, these consume her. She is too late. She missed her chance. Moments of sel...

He overshot the stop. Not by much but enough that she had to manipulate her overburdened stroller across a bank of solid ice and weave through two parked cars to get to the front door. Can you help me? she asked the driver. No,  he replied. She snapped her head back subtly, involuntarily, the way one does when passing a tethered dog that unexpectedly lurches for your leg. Unbelievable,  she mutters under her breath, eyes wide, head slowly shaking, side to side. She can't be 19; flawless, latte coloured skin, long kinky hair tied high in a pony tail, red manicured nails with a single white one on her right ring finger, as if to say this one, this is the one. That moment of decision, to attempt to board the streetcar unaided, grappling awkwardly, or turn back around and wait for the next one, passes across her face. Her shoulders rise, defiant, pulling her scarf up over her chin, masking her lower lip. He turns his gaze away, and closes the front doors.