Waving Not Drowning

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 ...

Summer camp. This year is Eli's year, no question. Fifteen, sizeable growth spurt over the school year, enough peach fuzz to justify actually scraping it off of his face with an outrageously overpriced razor he begged his mom to buy for him. He splashed out for cologne with his own money from babysitting. Eli is beloved by the kids on the block. A straight teenage boy with serious gaming chops and a way with lego who is a natural with kids. They flock to him like sheep to a shepherd and obey, obey, obey. Eli's mom can't figure out if he is gifted or just likes telling younger kids what to do. Bossy bully or empath. However you cut it, it gives him purpose and financial means. Ashley will be a CTI this summer. They had stayed in touch online all winter but this will be the first time he has seen her since Labour Day. The last day of last summer. A canoe ride across White Pine lake, huddled under the redwood, waiting out the storm, fumbling with each other's bodies, riski...

How could you do this to me- how could you? Don't just stand there looking down on me, with your mouth agape, like a fish dry drowning. You have irrevocably changed my life, you know that, right? You've killed me. I'm sure of it. I'm lying here crumpled, broken. I can't move my legs. I have no feeling from my belly down. This is terrifying. What have you done, what have you done to me? How did you not see me, I am right here. RIGHT HERE.  This hurts, you know. I know you can't hear me, I realize this now. But I am doing my best to stare at you through my half closed eyelids in this state of semi consciousness. I am trying to intuit this information to you through my slowly fading spirit. Every iota of my being is focused on trying to move, to speak, to scream or burble, any sound will do. The pain. Oh this is ridiculously painful and numbing at the same time. I was right there, beside you, behind you, ahead of you, in your rearview, your sideview, your windshiel...

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 late. Far too late for her to be up. Five hours, maybe? Not enough sleep but at some point the red wine and baba ganouj took over from the desire to crawl into bed. She survived it, though. Eight months of dread, knowing that this day would inevitably come and she'd be inundated with all kinds of reminders that he was really gone. A day for him and he was no longer here to celebrate or be celebrated. Her first instinct this morning was to call him at home but then she remembered. Every day, it's a re learning, a remembrance of what is no longer here. The new normal. Still a daughter yet now an orphan. Jacquie tried to console herself with the fact that at least she didn't have to suffer the annual ritual of yet another family style restaurant rotisserie chicken dinner with dear old Da to celebrate Father's Day but right now at this very second she would give anything to be sitting across from him in a naughehyde booth complaining about how the fries used to be ...