Waving Not Drowning

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...

Tuesday's special was breaded and fried Filet of Sole, two veg, mashed or roast potatoes, a cup of tea or coffee, no refills, and choice of either homemade rice pudding or green jello. Carey didn't know what flavour the green was, so he always opted for rice pudding even though he hated the texture. It felt like eating ants suspended in grimy porridge. Still for 5.95, he couldn't say no. You never leave food on your plate, that was how Carey was raised. Fifty four and his father's booming baritone plays on repeat in his memory: Eat your brussel sprouts, son. There's plenty of children starving in Africa, you think they'd leave food on their plates? They'd be licking them clean. I work my tail off in the yards so you and your sisters can have food on the table and a roof over your head. Your mother slaved all day in the kitchen to make you this meal, show some respect and eat up. You're not leaving the table until your plate is clean, you understand me? D...