Waving Not Drowning

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...