Waving Not Drowning

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...

She's been away longer than she was here. So strange. Home. How that changes. At some point two years turned into twenty and the old neighbourhood is now unrecognizable. Everything's smaller, less foreboding. Even Mr. Robichaud's hand hammered lawn ornaments seem tiny. Spent, worn, rusted out. Marnie's old house feels minuscule, a bungalow on a postage stamp lot facing an overgrown, decommissioned public park. Barbed wire fence and tagged clapboard demarcate what was once their secret hideaway. Where Do Not Enter meant Come On In. Flashlights and stolen magazines, hooch water concoctions and bottle upon bottle of dry roasted barbecue peanuts. So many memories here. Whatever clarity she had is obscured by nostalgia. When something begins it also starts to end. She read that the other day and can't shake it loose. Why bother starting anything if there's no hope, no possibility of infinite happiness? She longs for the old days of pure potential wh...

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...