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...

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...

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...

He's not showing up. It's been over two months of I really want to I'll do my best What do you feel, What do you hope for? I want to plan a trip, I want to spend time together to I'll be in San Ysidro. The other side of the continent. The thunder explodes outside her window. She's new here. First storm. Let's see if everything holds. She'd been doing her best to ask for what she wanted but could sense a push pull from him. You here? I'm here. All in. Retract. Apologize, explain, go ahead. Now It's ultimatums and irritations. This is how I am to This doesn't work for me. An object in motion stays in motion. Until An outside force bigger than the primary driver diverts the energy and changes the direction. Slow down. Patience. Hold. Wait- no. Keep going. You do you, she says. She wonders where expectation lives. Three days. That's her rule. Get in, unpack, hang everything in it's proper place....

It's almost time. Unless of course he's late. She's too tired to fight him anymore and really, traffic is insane these days. That's why she picks Aaron up after school and spends an hour and fifteen minutes at The Second Cup waiting for Chris to show up. The hand off. The passover. Wednesday afternoon to Thursday night, every second weekend, alternating high holidays. It used to be a hassle but they've settled into a quiet, comfortable groove. Surprising themselves at how much better they are as co parents than partners. Better friends than lovers. Taking the long way around. The same table every week, tucked into the corner on the club chairs with the noisy fabric. She smuggles in a juice box and over ripe banana but makes sure to fork out for a medium sized hot chocolate with extra whip to justify their monopolizing of real estate. It's prime time, this 4 to 5:15 pm slot. The same faces every week. She wonders where their passovers take place. ...

Side effects may include loss of sight, smell, raging diarrhea, flatulance, leaky gut syndrome, and an overall sense of malaise. Rare cases of stage 4 terminal lymphoma-based cancers have been known to occur. (Sorry) Suicidal thoughts, questioning one's self worth and life's purpose may also occur. Avoid if pregnant or nursing Thinking about pregnancy Thinking about dating Which may possibly lead to sex Which may accidentally lead to pregnancy with some emotionally unavailable douchenozzle who will flip out and go ballistic when you tell him after the fact that you've decided you're just not that into the idea of parenting to begin with so you'll be making the choice to terminate without his input, thank you very much. In other words, engage at your own risk. At this point, Barb's forgotten why she was even considering treatment at all. Why not just stay home, bake artisanal vegan macarons and write the next great travel guide to south western Utah. ...

If she leaves now, there's a good, no, a GREAT chance he won't see her. He's buried in his phone with his headphones on. Perfect. She's got her back to the door, her hoodie's around her waist, toque pulled low, massive glasses obscuring her face. She can grab her bag, scoop up her laptop and just GO. Shit. Shit shit shit shit. Mel? Is that you? Fer crissake- why do people say that? She shared a bed with him for two years, six months and 13 and a half days. She picked gingersnap crumbs off his chest while he slurped Earl Grey tea, and read racing biographies to him out loud for hours on end. They'd stumble over each other in the bathroom half naked, jockeying for space in the mirror. That beard. His cheap clippers tripping the fuse. Every single time. No one groomed longer than Alan. He's really not sure it's her? This from the man who mapped the freckles on her body with a Sharpie. Who tattooed her name on the inside of his bicep s...

It takes too long to steam the milk, so she pours it into the coffee straight from the fridge. Makes for a tepid cup, but she finishes it in a few long pulls. Good enough. The fridge is brand new, as is the stove. So is the bathroom sink and toilet. The last tenant died here so they did a complete overhaul on the apartment, including new floors and paint job. Sometimes it's easier to tear it all down and start over. She wasn't expecting this. Sometimes life throws you a curveball; you're thinking fastball and up you go. Counts 3 and 2, runner on 2nd, one out, bottom of the 6th. Ten more outs to go. You've got this. Head down. Keep on swinging. He would have been 19 this May. Christopher Harrison Jude. So many birth names. Never a battle she wanted to wage so everyone got their pick. He crowned and then stopped when she was giving birth as if to say, wait- I don't know- I just- I don't belong here. His first attempt was grade 9. Teams we...

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...

Bleary eyed and shuffling with the sound of roller bags and flips flops snapping at her heels. Early morning flights make her queasy. Not enough time to wake up and get sorted before she's out the door, under fed, discombobulated. Triple checking to make sure her phone is charged. That it's with her and not in the cab. Again. Mike continues to threaten her with idiot strings for the case, like the ones she used to have on her mittens as a toddler. Keep it tethered to you, at all times, he says. She can't abide by the workmanlike construction clip he wears on his hip like some contractor on site, precariously dangling off the wide open precipice of the fourteenth floor. To coffee or not to coffee, that is the question. Rather, the ensuing result will be an extended bathroom break. Is there time before boarding? What's the aircraft? A 67 or a shitty dual prop, with cubby hole toilets she can't stand up in. Hence why she no longer wears heels while flying...

Wind's coming up something fierce. She can't stand up without holding on to something, anything within her grasp. Just so happens it's Oliver. He's holding onto Winston, his tripod street dog from Thailand. Happy as can be, a permanent grin stretched across his flecked brown and white muzzle, bright pink nostrils flaring with every gust, his lone back leg swaying to stabilize his hips as he wiggles back and forth. Oh, I didn't- I'm sorry, I can barely stand up. This wind... S'ok. I'm used to balancing for two. He looks up at her, one eye closed, a permanent wink, corner of his mouth raised, hair windshield wiping across his brow. How can anyone look so calm and composed in the middle of hurricane? Winston seems to lean into it, like an arrow mid flight. She closes her grasp on his forearm tighter. Just so. It's picking up velocity now. The awning creaks and moans. She's sure it'll be Wizard of Oz time soon. There's no place ...

Not today. It's just not in the cards. Some days are better than others and today- well, let's just say today is what it is and that's going to have to be enough. An unforgiving morning and Siobhan is struggling to make it out alive. That's what this pounding headache and roiling gut is telling her- any minute now, this could be the  end. For better or worse. Just one more, Siobhan, come on. Drink up. DRINK UP. It's St. Paddy's Day, Siobhan- YOUR day, your PEOPLE. Your battles won and lost, the snakes, the famine, the potatoes, the....whatever. DRINK UP! Slainte! Brutal. Now bands are warming up underneath her window. Since when are West Indian tin drums part of an Irish parade? The noise, a cacophony of jigs and reels and Spirit of the West. Dj's on loudspeakers, police ops on walkies, bursts of frantic sirens racing to and fro, angling to control crowds of honourary Irish folk bedazzled in green felt bowlers and peel and stick transfers, slath...