Waving Not Drowning

Om Mani Padme Hum. Compassion. Or, Om, The Jewel in the Lotus, Hum!  Needled that into her skin, forever marking herself, one of seven rites of passage. Lots of moving forward colouring her landscape, some fading, others bleeding into the edges, all of them clear, concise markers of specific moments in her life. Some are beyond explanation. Over the years they have altered their course, and now represent something so far removed from their original intention she can no longer explain them to new lovers or curious ladies in the locker room. They are what they are. A road map in technicolour and black and white fading into muted navy blue. There's always a moment of sadness before she starts a new piece, a farewell to the virgin, naked skin soon to be irrevocably altered. Capturing this time, this place, this heart, this desire. Forever. Or until she sheds her skin and generates a new one, untouched, unblemished, and begins again.

Sunday mornings are meant for sleeping in, except when Caroline's mother comes barging into their bedroom and demands that the girls Rise and Shine and Get Ready for Church. Louder than a bullhorn, that woman. Church. Ugh. The only downside to sleepovers at Caroline's house was the Sunday morning church thing. Tracy never understood why she had to get dragged along. She was barely a house guest by that point, she figured, not some long lost, pseudo family member. If it was a Saturday night before bed, like Christmas Eve mass or something, sure, she could see their insistence. But getting up at 7 am on a Sunday morning after staying up til 4 with the Ouija board, conjuring spirits with a flashlight under the duvet? In Tracy's mind, this was torture. A bizarre form of weekend detention. She hated going to church. It always made her feel stupid, like she didn't belong. She never knew when to kneel or rise, or the words to the songs or what to repeat after the priest or fat

If she keeps edging in, inch by inch, atom by atom, it won't feel so overwhelming. Head up, eyes on the horizon, breathing timed to her favourite waltz: in-two-three, out-two-three. She's up to her thighs now, that place where the curve opens up and wraps underneath her hip, as if asking to be caressed, enveloped by a pelvis from behind. Limbed Lego, locking into place. Her fingers immersed, the energy rising up her forearms, pooling in the crook of her bent elbows. Arms akimbo. She releases her shoulders and her heart opens to the sky as she leans back, arms wide, submerging her entire being, emptying her lungs. She is suspended in mid inhalation, pure potential, slowly expanding, ascending into wide open grace. Their bodies, entwined. Surrender.

Some days are a struggle, plain and simple. Getting out of bed, feeding the cat. Days like this Amy's thankful she doesn't have a dog. The thought of having to get  dressed  for this minus stupid weather so she can stand around waiting to pick up dog crap with a plastic swathed mitten repulses her. Honestly, the main deterrent to Amy's adopting a dog is the pooping and scooping. At least with a cat she can use a long handled scoop. Still, she's thought long and hard about getting that dvd and kit that teaches your cat to use the toilet like a human being. Much more civilized. Rupert could do it too, she thinks. He's smart. Wily, at least, with the way he jimmies open the cat food cupboard at 4 am. That cat has some serious burglar ing skills. Ha. Cat burglar. Amy hiccups an aborted laugh into her pillow. Seven forty five. Too late to hit the snooze bar. Six weeks is a long time to wait and see if these meds will be different. Six long, bleak, grey mid-winter weeks.

Oliver spends fourteen minutes of every lunch hour walking to and from the dollar store. He has it timed within a ten second measure, depending on traffic lights and unforeseen obstructions, such as wayward contruction cones and temporary fencing.  Sometimes Angie the crossing guard tries to engage him in meaningless conversation which irritates Oliver to no end. Please do not talk to me, I have a very strict timeline and cannot be distracted, thank you. This is Oliver's well worn mantra. At least twice a week, generally Tuesdays and Thursdays unless it is raining, Angie tries to engage him on his walk. Oliver is easily annoyed. He knows this because his parents remind him of it repeatedly, every morning over his breakfast of cheerios with a sliced banana, 6 raw almonds and 1% milk in the yellow bowl with a blue rim. If the banana is too ripe or not ripe enough, if there are 5 almonds or 7, Oliver becomes inconsolable. Nothing short of a full court press from both parents can calm

Your hand under my heart.  Right there. Ribs filling the space between your fingers, cupping my breast.  Your palm expanding, contracting, with the rise and fall of every breath. Now slowly disengage.  Can you feel it, how the heat lingers?  The tension in the space between us. Current flowing, Slowly disappears.

Hey, you remember Danny in Grade Seven? Man, I'm blanking on his last name, something with a C, I think, I dunno. I just keep thinkin about that time we all stayed late to paint that mural and Mr. Johnson told us half way through we had to white it out and start again. Poor Danny man, he just lost it. You don't remember? He started hyperventilating and stomping his feet, screaming, No! No, no, no, no, no! Threw his paintbrush on the floor, ripped off his painting coverall. Scared the crap outta the poor Grade Four kids. Mr. Johnson tried to settle him down but Danny flipped out when he touched him, started screaming this high pitched wail. I never hear anythin like it, you know? Gave me goose bumps. Then Mr. Matthews came in and tried to quiet him down and that's when Danny bit him. Right through his shirt. Punctured the skin on his forearm- we could see the blood start to seep through his white sleeve. Then all hell broke loose and Michelle and Natalie started crying, me a

Five more steps then a right turn, hop ten more steps then a slight dip. Damn. Shoddy work, this bit here- the threshold's uneven between the kitchen and living room, a downright trip hazard, Gord thinks. That's what you get for cheap rent. Stupid landlord thinks makeshift is satisfactory. If you're going to do something.....Eight weeks in a full leg cast and he's mapped out the entirety of his 500 square foot apartment down the inch. How many steps to the kitchen, how many degrees torque required to open the fridge door while balancing on one leg as he tries to finangle open the crisper without taking a header into the freezer. His own private choreography, a bad two-minute bit from some lame busker who could never master juggling more than 3 balls. Fuck! Damn, piss, shit, crap...the jar of tomato sauce slips from his grip and explodes on the tile, sending red sauce up the front of his cast, inside the fridge shelves and all the way across the backsplash. Perfect. Thi

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

You'll have to forgive me, I'm easily overwhelmed by the ladies, he says accompanied by a slight shuffle of his sole-worn boots, casually laced, tongues wagging like an overheated hound. It's pause for thought. Something she hadn't even considered, given his reputation. A long, tall drink of water- isn't that the saying? Cool, confident, quietly aloof, a smile for all he greets. That certain  sort of charisma that makes every woman feel special. Like she's the one, the only one who elicits that chemistry, that spark, that heartstopping, vibrating full body connection. He makes her thrum. Until of course the rumours start to swirl. Like a maelstrom, or Thunder Mountain, that nauseating hypnotic carnival ride at the summer fairs, the ones her mother forbade her from attending. Safety first! Piped in '80's hairband hits scream out of the tin can amplifiers as the makeshift bobsleds cycle round repeatedly, past the acne prone, apathetic ride operator too f

Twenty one felt ancient at the time. Years past high school, three years of college, and here they were all grown up, fully realized, standing at the foot of Mike's open casket. Who's decision was that, the open casket?  Dressed in his favourite shirt, the grey, red and white watery plaid, he looks like he's sleeping. Pompadour in place, cheeks too pink, skin an unfamiliar waxy grey. This is when twenty one feels childlike. Overwhelming. None of this makes sense to them. Mike was Max's friend who fell in love with Jennifer's cookies. One of her regulars. Every day before his shift he'd come by the cookie store and wax poetic about the glory of the simple Chocolate Chunk. Who needed the Menage A Trois?  he'd say. Three types of chocolate was bludgeoning you over the head. Nah, straight up dark chocolate is the only one worth eating, according to Mike. His half cocked grin slowly slid across his mouth. Knowing. Jen would occasionally throw in an extra cookie,

It's the shuffle that undoes her. La da da, la da da da da... melodic melancholy, the combination that swells her heart and fills her eyes with tears she lets roll down her face the way only actors do in movies. For a  moment she wonders if she should wipe the raccoon stained makeup from under her eyes, clear the corners of the black gobs, that salty, pearlized waste, the detritus of a half hour's concerted effort to make herself attractive. Alluring. Worthy. In real life, pain is messy; sadness undoes all her hard work.  She's uncomfortable to witness. Strangers are stumbling head on into the dark night of her soul, in full red eyed, puffy lipped, snot nosed display. She knows better, she thinks, than to put herself on display like this. Billboard like, she stands immovable to the throngs milling around her, on their way to who knows where. Headphones on, eyes half shut, her lips move almost imperceptibly to the music. Somewhere in the back of her mind she recalls building

He overshot the stop. Not by much but enough that she had to manipulate her overburdened stroller across a bank of solid ice and weave through two parked cars to get to the front door. Can you help me? she asked the driver. No,  he replied. She snapped her head back subtly, involuntarily, the way one does when passing a tethered dog that unexpectedly lurches for your leg. Unbelievable,  she mutters under her breath, eyes wide, head slowly shaking, side to side. She can't be 19; flawless, latte coloured skin, long kinky hair tied high in a pony tail, red manicured nails with a single white one on her right ring finger, as if to say this one, this is the one. That moment of decision, to attempt to board the streetcar unaided, grappling awkwardly, or turn back around and wait for the next one, passes across her face. Her shoulders rise, defiant, pulling her scarf up over her chin, masking her lower lip. He turns his gaze away, and closes the front doors.

His smell. Undeniably of him. Like no one else she'd ever smelled before, like her nose was hardwired into her pulse. Every time she smelled him, she felt as if her head would explode from blood pressure rising. The middle of the night wake-ups, the 3 am silent dark moments. She'd awaken from deep slumber smelling him. He's 5000 kilometers away and permeates every cell of her body. How does that happen? There's an upside to having a large linen collection. Fifteen sets of pillowcases and it's as if he's in every one. She can't remember the last time he laid his head on her pillow, if ever, now that she thinks about it. Yet she'll walk down the street, do a triple shoulder check because she swears he's in the air, all around her. In the midst of the heavyset autumn eve, he lingers in her body. Something happens when the sun comes out and the trees erupt their blossoms. His scent disappears. Only for a few days but it's as if the possibility of new

She's been thinking about this bread for three years. Three years. It had been that long since she'd seen her father. Circumstance, space- they both give way to time. Now here they are. Sitting across the same table in a corner booth, his back to the wall. He hates anyone coming up from behind him. Makes him nervous, he says. She inhales slice after slice of hot, chewy, melt in your mouth fresh baguette, knowing she'll pay for it later. Gluten intolerant or at least that what she believes after reading that book and listening to that pod cast. It's a convenient excuse, either way, keeps her mindful of all the carbs she eats. Stupid, she thinks, but at this point she'd tried every other fad diet and hormonal rebalancing pill she could get her hands on. The bread just feels right. Good. Like a comforting hug, slathered in ripe extra extra virgin olive oil and salt. She'll just order a salad for dinner. That makes it all worthwhile, right? With dressing on the sid

Come here, go away. Come here, go away. Come on....comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon.......please....pleasepleaseplease.... I thought you said you ...I did. I heard you say and then I said and you said so I thought and then- Oh. But- no, I guess you said...and then I heard but  I said that we- Then you...and me, we- But you said- I heard...I thought you meant, I mean, how could I not if that's what we did and you said and I thought and I said because we...and we both- No, we did. We did, I know we did. I did, you mean to say you- Oh. oh. Ok. Ok, ok....I thought. I believed, I mean, that this- that we'd, said, believed...I thought... Come here. Go away. Please. Stay. I....