Waving Not Drowning

She pulls on her thickest socks, wiggling her toes, hanging over in a forward fold, nose to knees, letting out a long, low sigh. Mornings. She could fall back into bed right now and pretend this day isn't happening but then what? Where to then? Eventually the sun will come up and things will have to get done. A shower. Breakfast. Walk the dog, shovel the steps, do the laundry, return his messages that have been haunting her for the last three days. She has no idea what to say, how to tell him she is leaving. It's been an incredible time, more fulfilling, exhilarating and wholly encompassing than anything she could have possibly imagined and she's got to go. There is nothing left except the inevitable fall from grace so it's time to disengage and disappear. Part of her wants so badly to hop in the car, race over to his attic apartment with the fake panelled walls and red shag rug, propel herself into his arms, legs wrapped tightly around his hips and tackle him onto the ...

She's got everything on her back that she can carry which is slowing her down considerably. Trina wants to make sure she has the essentials, just in case. Be prepared for anything. That's Trina's cri de coeur. The problem is that anything is an awful lot to prepare for. Inclement weather, transit delays, spontaneous combustion. Trina can't prepare for that last one, though so figures she'll play fast and loose in case of fire. She never used to be like this, so conscientious and concerned. Or paranoid if you listen to her sister. That's all fine and good until things go sideways and someone needs latex free gloves, waxed dental floss, a mechanical pencil or raw organic energy bars, a litre of filtered  water and a CPR rebreather. Trina's got your back. Meanwhile hers is collapsing. That twinge in her shoulder is radiating a sharp stabbing pain down the back of her neck from so much weight unevenly slung across her side. She's tried a smaller purse but ma...

It's not her drama. They're nattering on like pissy little school girls, taking strips off their best friend's husbands, talking smack about her legs, his face, her skin, his place. It's appalling. A self perpetuating feeding frenzy of judgement, these forty year old women buzz like a bee hive under siege in the music school's waiting room. Such vitriol and bile, Veronica can't control the scowl creeping across her face. Tuesday night ritual: bitch n bash. Ronnie drops off and picks up her nephew, the world's best boy. A seven year old dynamo of genius and giggles. Normally she spends the hour of Grayson's piano lesson doing homework at the cafe next door but there's a staff christmas party tonight so she's left to her own devices in the too close for comfort foyer. Ronnie wonders why women like this have children to begin with since everything in their lives seems to be an unbearable burden and trial. Rich, white, suburban, solidly middle class ...

It's driving her crazy, this weird humming, high pitched wail coming from the front door. She discovered it coming home late one night, climbing the stairs to her darkened porch, waving her arms to trigger the world's least responsive motion sensor light. She could hear this whinging, like a pitch pipe stuck between tones, ebbing and flowing. At first she thought it was a distant siren, or someone's smoke alarm going off next door. Then it crescendoed to a keening wail from the depths of some tortured soul. Kat freaked out, shoulder checked frantically, fumbled in her bag for her keys, dropping them on the ground. She managed to muscle her key into the lock and had to body check the door to open it. It was like entering a total vapour lock. Kat found this house online about 4 years earlier, on a spontaneous trip back home over the high holidays. A need to get away from her present craziness and bask in the familiar yet equally crazy energy of the big city. It's an old t...

The thing is, he's right. But so is she. She frightens him now. That's new. Whatever love and intimacy that existed between them has been worn down, rubbed out from months of struggle. She's turned inward, collapsed on herself. He stands farther off, eyes to the floor. They'll sit for interminable amounts of time not speaking, avoiding all contact while sharing a bed barely built for two. From great beginnings come heartbroken endings. It started slowly, imperceptibly at first. Disagreements over petty things, arguments exploding out of thin air over inconsequential actions, a misunderstanding, a missed call, a late reply, an extended pause. She became combustible, a volcano erupting, annihilating entire landscapes with molten lava of language. He was a wall, stretched thin in every direction, undulating with her waves of emotion crashing down onto him, over him, drowning him. Now they are on opposing teams, enemies sharing camp desperate for some sort of armistice. It...

Deep breath. Four more minutes. She can release and move forward. It's brutal. The discomfort, the not knowing. Trying to be good, trying to be aware, every single thing she puts into her mouth, on her skin. Absorbability is key. She's losing weight, bleeding. Steroids are her enemy but beyond this it's surgery which terrifies her. Being attached to a bag. Losing a part of her body, even if it is inside of her, unseen, unknown, they way her skin, her face are. Her body's betraying her. Genetics, they say. Maybe not, maybe a bacterial infection or parasite that went wrong. After all, it's a mystery. They keep throwing things at her disease, seeing what sticks. Doctors have unspoken permission to bring you as close to death without killing you while searching for some sort of cure. Respite. There is no "cure." She will live this forever. It may go into remission but she will never be able to donate organs. Even blood. She's faulty. Broken. Through no fau...

Four more stops, a quick 2 block jaunt. Two hours to spare. Traveling light. Passport in hand.  Hopefully she'll be on time. Every year she swears she'll go. The best intentions. Plans her vacation around it, organizes her calendar, even commits to other people. No fail, something comes up. The flu. An out of town conference. An overrun on scheduled conference calls. But she knows the truth. If it's really important she can find a way, make the time, prioritize. It's once a year, for crying out loud. The same time, same day, same hour every single year. Her father would be disappointed, she knows this. She made a promise and broke it. It's almost like a phobia now. She sees the poppies pinned to every lapel, the veterans standing sentinel on corners, in subway stations, with their little boxes of fake plastic stickpin totems and she freezes up. She feels like a truant, skipping her duty, the daughter of a celebrated vet, granddaughter of a decorated soldier. It star...