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 ...

Another trip round the sun. Three hundred sixty five days, couple of blue moons, handful of seasons, myriad of cells sloughed off, regenerated and she's still here. One year older, arguably wiser, certainly more experienced with this thing called Life and all that entails. Every moment of every day carries within it the pure potential to swing wildly in or out of her favour so she's been practicing choice, adaptation, engagement, disentanglement, acceptance, forgiveness, righteous indignation, compassion, kindness and outright fear and anger wrapped in a bottomless pit of Now What? One more year, one more ring around the trunk. Roots grow deeper, sails bellow out a bit deeper and black and white becomes a tenuous shade of grey more often than not. The what ifs, the shoulda woulda coulda's mean something different now. That surprises her. Expect the unexpected. Better yet, lose all expectation. Investments are larger, losses are greater and the highs failed to manifest in an...

It came out of nowhere. Streets slick from a sudden shower, lamp light reflecting in unexpected directions. Quiet. Late. She never jaywalks but after triple checking and the coast being clear she stepped into the roadway. She heard it before she saw it. It felt like seconds before her mind made the connection. A car, barreling towards her. A silver late model BMW sedan, swerving into the intersection at full throttle. Coming out of U turn from somewhere. It really is like they say: caught in the headlights. In slow motion she couldn't discern if the car was coming at her or going around her. It was wet, late, barren. This shouldn't be happening, not here, not now. She stops, trying to judge which way to move. Go forward, skirt back, zigzag across. All she knows is that at his moment, this very second in time she is in stasis, suspended. A simple walk home after class, a subway ride with a colleague discussing the merits of an outdoor sculpture park in Montreal she really must s...

Sleep, that's all she needs. Turn off her brain and shut down her body. Virginia can't figure out how this became her routine. Up with the birds then run around frenetically accomplishing next to nothing until her feet are so sore it hurts to walk. And for what, that's the question. Clear as mud, to quote her mom. She picked the wrong fork in the woods way back when, that's obvious. Thanks for nothing Mr. Frost. Hours and hours of breaking her back trying to master her craft and for what? A life of constant struggle and suffering with little to no reward. These days, at least- that's the reality. Give give give. What about some taking, hmm? Ginny's ready to stop and smell the roses. Reap her just rewards. Throw her stupid alarm clock out the window and sleep in for a change and participate in activities and work that is actually fulfilling, creatively, spiritually, emotionally. Ten, fifteen years ago maybe this was a different story but what happened to respect ...

This is an incredible moment of panic. Opening up the freezer and not finding the stash of emergency chocolate. The really expensive kind, too. Fair trade, organic, chips of mint, maybe coconut, she can't remember. It was a spontaneous purchase for occasions just like this one. She knows better. Stay away from the computer. Flashing across her screen. His face. The date. The announcement. Probably as close as she'll ever come to skydiving without a parachute. She imagines that this is what it feels like. Her vision blurs, she feels her pulse pound through the veins in her neck like a torture porn movie, and waits for her heart to explode. Any second now. This is it. Old ghosts. Living in her psyche. Lining her fascia, sheathing her entire body. Tiny tubular webbing filled with fluid, stretching and undulating, tightening, seizing, creating adhesions. Blocks. Sticking patterns. She needs to break it down before it hardens into more scar tissue around her heart. Again. Months of ...

Two more steps and he'll make the couch. Three if he shuffles. This pain, this never ending intense ache deep in his bones, radiating like a searing beacon of Hey Stupid, Way To Go. Feet. Dang. So many small bones, all jammed up, tight together, a perfect symmetry when everyone gets along but one unexpected twist and fall and bam, thanks for playing but this is where you get off. Such bad timing. Eight weeks of work coming up after a blissful, recuperative month off; now he has to figure out how to shuffle gracefully in a hidden cast on camera while pretending to be grounded, solid, whole. Easy peasy. Ha! And the itching, oy. The chopsticks and wooden spoons and modified backscratchers jammed down the cast. Inflate, deflate, elevate, ice, compress, release, oh my god why did this have to happen NOW? Sigh. Ah well, a hitch in his giddy up, a tilt in his hips, an even slower, purposeful gait. S'alright, s'allll good, what evaaaaah. This will wind it's way into the myriad ...