Puppy

The little hound pup's nose twitched.  So many interesting scents, he didn't know which to follow first. He hung back by his human's heels as she opened the gate, then shot through before she could shut it in his face.

His nose led him across the street and around the corner, hot on the trail of two Yorkies, a Maltese, a squirrel - no! three squirrels!  He raced up the street as fast as his little paws would take him. Past the house with the Yorkies, past the yard where a big dog woofed from behind his own fence, and even past the bush that every dog for two miles marked. He raced up to the next corner, his nose promising him squirrel, french fries from the pub and some type of bird.

A loud clang as something lunged towards him. It smelled of steel and grease and angry human. It lunged again, this time clipping his ear.

He peed himself in fright, wheeled around on his back paws and headed straight for home.  His speed easily tripled what it had been on the trail of the squirrel.

Up ahead, his human kneeled on the grass, her arms outstretched as she called his name.

He skidded to a stop in front of her, his body shaking with terror. No clanging steel teeth behind him but it had been a slow beast.

The pup leapt into his human's arms and let her carry him home. She smelled of disappointment, fear and concern. But also of love.  He burrowed his nose in the nape of her neck, rooted through her ponytail so that all he smelled was her.

Terror faded. The scent of squirrel and other dogs lingered, less demanding now. Love filled his quivering body, calmed him.  As long as she held him, he was safe. Content.

Mason jars

No one noticed the mason jars hanging around the cemetery. If they had, most people would have assumed they were lanterns or even citronella jars to keep away mosquitoes.  Every night, Jase checked his traps then transferred the confused souls from the graveyard.  Each morning they awoke, jammed into the birdhouses with nine or ten other dazed souls, tethered by string to the perches inside.  Their plaintive wails fill the neighbourhood with the sweet song of imprisonment.

Home

The stairs of the great wide white porch of the grand old hotel beckoned me forward.  Renowned world wide for its excellent service and Grecian Revival architecture as much as for its ghosts, the hotel had been my home for more years than I cared to remember.

I strode through the lobby, nodded to Gertrude whose wooden needles clacked as she knit by the fireplace.  She began and ended her day there, working on endless garments for grandchildren none of us ever met.

Joe poured lemon oil onto a soft cloth to work it into the banister at the base of the stairs. I tipped my hat towards him then climbed to the first landing, his cheerful whistle tugging a smile from my usual scowl.

I peered out the window.  Violet raced across the back lawn to her position beneath the aspen that stood tall at the gate to the garden.  I waited and watched.  Less than a minute later, Jack followed at a discreet distance to stroll away from the hotel towards the stables where he rarely toiled.  I erased my smile, the couple fooled no one, and rearranged my face into its customary look of impatience.

Joe winked at me.  As the clock began its customary spellbinding charm, we froze in our positions and waited.

A flash from the digital camera in the in the lobby caught Joe in its flare. His smile beamed bright as a ray from the dying sun then he disappeared - released from his penance as tourist attraction.

Chameleon

I am a chameleon.

Ever since I can remember, I had the ability to blend in with any group.  The bigger the crowd, the better my assimilation.  It's not a conscious act on my part. It is as natural as breathing and as difficult to control. I can hold it at bay for brief moments but eventually my natural tendency kicks in and I become part of the landscape.

Gestures, accents, gender, ethnicity, even skin colour - none of those matter. I mimic them as easy as you breathe.

Whether it's a gang of ginger-haired terrors one minute or tea-drinking grannies sharing knitting patterns the next, I have one of those faces. It's familiar to everyone. Often because it's most like the one that looks back at you from a mirror every morning.

I am whoever is around me. Sitting at home, alone, I am barely myself. Music, books, decor are all from the people I have been over the years. I look in the mirror and see no one. Just a blank face waiting for colour and expression.  I do not know my right from your wrong. I am no one and everyone.

I do my best to be around good people. Caring people full of kindness, empathy and compassion. I have been on both sides of most debates. Been bullied, beaten and spat upon because of my gender, colour of skin or clothing. Being a chameleon means I know fear, hatred and violence.  I try to choose the side of love but that often results in more beatings.

I have hidden in my room, away from all the different skins, but that was as lonely as blending in the crowd. Self-loathing is more destructive than external hate.

Tonight, I will shake off the oppressive mantle of self-doubt and join the biggest party of revelers I can find. People who know how to have fun in the face of opposition, pride in who they are, and dance regardless of who is watching.  Tonight I will be a gay Latino and love life.

Box of promises

A well-dressed man ran into me with a box of promises. The rose inlaid box hit my hip then crashed to the wet pavement.  The lid popped open.  Some promises spilled out and broke against the harsh cement.

The promises weren't meant for me.

I still have the scar on my hip

Jeanette Ethel Sutherland

My Aunt Jean was born Jeanette Ethel Davis in Pelham, Ontario on June 7, 1913 to Charles (b. Newcastle, England) and Margaret(nee Campbell, b. Dowally, Scotland).  22 years to the day she lost her son, and 22 years plus one day after she lost her beloved husband George, Aunt Jean joined them.
It broke my heart but the thought of them reunited did a lot to ease my grief.  I love this photo of them.

Apparently, I am now the family historian. Aunt Jean passed down a lot of stories as we sorted through old photo albums.  One photo is of her grandparents James and Catherine Campbell, taken at the turn of the 20th century!

Anyway, because of that, I was asked to give her eulogy.  The following is what I wrote but full disclosure, I veered off track at one point.  From what I remember, I hit the highlights.

What do you say about someone who lived 103 years?  103 years of mostly good health and a sharp mind. There are simply too many wonderful stories to recount here today.

One of my earliest memories is of going to Aunt Jean’s house for a visit over a cup of tea.  The tea was in a pretty pot. Milk and sugar were served in proper dishes and we drank out of delicate tea cups. There were always cookies.  Although I was quite young, Aunt Jean asked me about my day as if the dramas of a three year old meant something to hear.  It was a kindness I strive to emulate with all the young children in my own life.

Tea with Aunt Jean was a constant in my life. As recently as five or six weeks ago, we had tea, no cookies, but lots of good conversation.  She would ask me to bring the laptop so we could go through old family photographs.  Every visit she would remember another story or person and I would do my best to record it in some fashion. Most of the time I was too caught up in the story to get it all down.

Over the years, she was a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a nurse, a wife, mother, grandmother, and friend. Even last year, she told me about her new friend the gardener at the nursing home. He was from China and they talked about travel, culture and plants.  “Isn’t that something?” she asked. It was her understated exclamation for most things. You knew you’d really caught her attention when she said that.

When I was young, dad told me aunt jean was my great-aunt. I thought that was a description, an appropriate superlative not a familial designation. I still feel that way.

When you’re young, you don’t give much thought to the life your parents, grandparents, aunts or uncles led before you came on the scene.  Aunt Jean though, she never stopped experiencing life.  She modeled clothes, beautiful designer clothes, when she was in her 60’s! I don’t know where she got the confidence for something like that. She and Uncle George went dancing, out with friends and worked in the garden.  Age didn’t slow either one of them down.  Losing George and Robbie was devastating and I don’t know how she survived it. 

She stayed in the house that Uncle George built for her until she was 96 or 97.  My cousin Sandra came from BC to visit one winter before Aunt Jean moved into the nursing home. The three of us sat in the front room and talked about our lives, how we kept ourselves busy then went to the kitchen for tea.  As Aunt Jean poured hot water from the kettle into the pot she apologized for serving us in the kitchen. Her mother would be appalled at her manners. Sandra looked at me as if to ask was Aunt Jean losing it.  She caught the look and said, I still hear my mother’s voice telling me when I do things wrong. The three of us laughed. It never ends? No, no matter how old you get you’re always your mother’s daughter she told us.

The first time I went to Scotland I wanted to find out more about the Fenton side of the family – my paternal grandmother’s people.  While staying with friends over there I kept in touch via Facebook. One evening, I was doing some research while chatting with mom online. She had Aunt Jean on the phone who wanted to know if I’d found her mother’s family! So of course I abandoned the Fentons to look for the Campbells. I’m so glad I did that. My next trip I was able to find the farm where Aunt Jean’s mother was born. There was a family rumour that Granny, Aunt Jean’s mother, had been born in Stirling Castle. Close. But not Stirling. Her father was head ploughman for the Duke of Atholl at Rotmell Farm.  The very farm, by the way, that inspired Queen Victoria to build Balmoral. It’s in the Queen’s diary.  Anyway, there was a problem with Granny’s birth so her mother was carted up to the castle where Granny was born in the kitchen. I took photos of the farm, the cart road that still exists and the unique white washed castle. Not only that, but the farmer was able to explain that all of aunt Jean’s aunts and uncles were born on the Duke’s estates around the country.  It meant a lot to Aunt Jean to be able to sort through all the information and find out where her mother had been born.  It meant a lot to me to be able to share that experience with her.

Family meant everything to Aunt Jean. She never regretted giving up nursing to become George’s wife.  While it had been something she enjoyed a great deal, a career simply wasn’t the way to go back then.  All my life I heard about Young George and Robbie’s talents and accomplishments. Then the grandchildren.  But all the cousins too, most of whom I’d never met.  She would show me pictures of babies and graduations then weddings and explain all the relationships.  She loved all the babies.  Jamie, your baby made her so happy.

She was a woman of style and grace. I don’t normally dress like this (black and white as opposed to a lot of colour) but Aunt Jean had expectations of appropriate attire and I wanted to honour that.

 I never heard her be cruel or unkind but Rachel reminded me of The Look. You were never in doubt if Aunt Jean disapproved of dress or behaviour.  She was quite harsh with me once many years ago.  I was complicating something thinking of all the obstacles.  Aunt Jean was firm. This requires that. I was trying to substitute that. She broke it down into the simplest terms. No substitutions. You have to put the work in to get the results you want.  Regardless of what this and that are, it’s been advice that’s led me out of more than a few missteps.  There have been many times when I’ve asked myself what would Aunt Jean do.

No matter where we go from here, we all carry Aunt Jean with us. Whether it’s an expression, a way of doing things, a sense of style, or even The Look (Rachel has it down perfectly) Aunt Jean has touched each and every one of us – and always will.

I invite each of you to please go up to someone here you don’t know and share a story of your life with Jean. 

Jeanette Ethel Sutherland June 7, 1913 - May 18, 2016

I miss her every day.

Challenges

I'm typing one-handed to say I'm still here, still writing (mostly in my head). I'll be back to post more entertaining words when my hand heals or I figure out my Dragon Naturally Speaking software - whichever comes first. Given my accident-prone nature, it should be the software.

Until then, some words I've been thinking go together well. Arrange to your own amusement:
Fast trains
Dogs
Beavers
Chocolate
Closing doors
Gravel
Topsoil
Rake
Pain
Blood
First kiss
Last kiss
Hope
Disillusion
Optimism
Fire
Bicycle

The hole

Taking a break isn't the same as quitting.  I rested my arm on top of the shovel's handle and surveyed my handiwork.  Five hours of digging, three liters of sweat and screaming muscles in shoulders, back and legs only got me a hole less than knee deep.

I dropped the shovel and stepped down into the hole.  I lay down in the hard dirt and stretched out - or tried to.  I'm 5'7".  If I cut my feet off around mid-shin, I'd be able to lie flat.  My shoulders had to hunch and my hips rubbed against the sides. The hole wasn't wide enough.

I sat up then climbed out of the ground. A slight breeze blew hot air around me. It was cooler down in the earth.

I blinked the sweat out of my eyes and wished I'd had the sense to wear a hat. With a loud sigh, I dug back into the hard clay.  The hole wasn't going to dig itself. If I walked away it would never get done.

I had about four hours of daylight left. Time enough to widen the hole, maybe lengthen it.  It would be shallow, there was no getting around that. I still hadn't figured out how I would disguise the freshly dug pit.  The darkness would have to cover my tracks. It wouldn't matter in the daylight.

I'd be gone by then.

Breathe

Can't. breathe.

I clutch my hand to my throat - like that's going to help - and stagger down the stairs.  The lobby is empty.

Each breath feels like being stabbed with a serrated knife.  There's not enough oxygen reaching my brain. I don't know what's happening. I don't know what caused it. I definitely don't care.

I need air.

I struggle to the front door. Outside the sun is shining. It's a crisp Autumn day and the cold air will revive me.

I trip over the couch by the door. My sternum hits the arm and I gasp. Air rushes from my lungs, the world tilts and suddenly I can breathe.

I drag as much air into my lungs as possible. Leaning on the sofa arm helps me orient myself. The oxygen rush to my brain is exhilarating.  I slowly roll and collapse onto the couch.

A man's face fills my vision. With his nose almost pressed against mine, I can't help but see the rage in his eyes.  "You did this to yourself."

With gloved hands, he picks up both of my hands.  He wraps one of my hands around a paring knife and slowly forces me to slice across one wrist then switches hands. Weakened from the loss of air, stunned by his presence, I don't fight.

My hands drop to my lap, blood weeps onto my nightgown.

My gaze is glued to his, watching myself die in the reflection of his eyes.

He's right. I deserve this. I deserve worse.

I killed his son.

Barn dance

Andy spun Gwen through the dance floor in the middle of the barn.  It wasn't a livestock barn.  Used mostly to store antique cars and expensive convertibles, the barn doors were opened wide when Spring came and the cars left to purr down the country roads. Bales of hay were hauled inside, a small stage lined the back wall and the barn dances began.

Andy swung Gwen out for a twirl, dropped to one knee and brought her to rest there just as the song ended. Breathless with laughter, Gwen kissed him.  The other barn dancers whooped at their display.

Andy's hip gave out and they fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs. The hooting turned to concern but Gwen waved them off. She levered herself up with the finesse of the gymnast she'd been in her youth.  Andy struggled to his feet then took Gwen's hand. They bowed once to loud applause then moved back to the hay bale reserved just for them - the original owners of the 1945 Ford Coupe that Andy bought with his army severance cheque after the war.

Good connections

Today's Awesome was more about what didn't happen than what did.  The nasty confrontation that was shaping up to result in irreparable damage, not to mention the police and ambulance (sadly, very real possibilities when dealing with people who have rage issues) somehow managed to be avoided.  AWESOME.

The nail from the bottom of the bed we were carrying down the street (see confrontation avoidance) missed my artery when it dug into my wrist. It didn't miss by much but miss it did. AWESOME.

While walking to work later in the day, it occurred to me that sometimes a Good Thing is something little.  Like the fact that carrying furniture up and down stairs burns a lot of calories. So I ate an extra triangle of Toblerone for medicinal purposes - to keep my strength up.

There was a flock of sparrows sitting on the neighbour's hedge. The dark green and faded red of the leaves provided nice camoflage for the little brown birds. As I approached their roost all but one flew off. Quivering, it seemed to hope that lack of movement would make me walk by. I stopped and marveled at how vibrant the browns, greys and beiges of its feathers were to my heightened senses. Sugar and adrenaline hadn't left my system yet and on some level I understood how desperately that little sparrow wanted to be invisible.  I averted my eyes and moved on. I swear I heard it sigh with relief before the rest of the flock surrounded it, chattering loudly.

Hunter

For the fourth night in a row, I waited beneath a poplar tree at the edge of the parking lot. Exactly five minutes past closing, three women exited through the bookstore's back door.

All three looked in my direction to check if I was there. They neither knew nor cared that I could hear them. The words homeless, stalker, pervert all reached my grubby ears. Fear pointed out my filthy garments, broken spoke bicycle piled high with all my worldly possessions.

The lit ember of my cigarette gave my eyes an unearthly glow. The women shuddered as they walked past. The older brunette wrinkled her nose as if to seal off the heavy smell of woodsmoke from my campfire. Perhaps she was sensitive and caught a whiff of my unwashed skin and clothes.

The youngest, a thin girl in her late teens turned and looked back over her shoulder. She expected me to race from my post behind the tree and cut them down before they could reach their vehicles. They said goodbye to each other in haste and departed for safety.

I waited.

It didn't take long for the other to step out from behind the dumpster. Clothed in fine cloth, with clean hair and the sharp tang of aftershave, he was everything I was not. Night and day, clean and filthy, danger and safety.

He was a man women would stop and sigh for. I am not. Yet neither of us were as we seemed.

"Again, brother? How long will you watch over them?"

"For as long as I must"

"You know her time is coming. All men, and women, must die."

"Yes."

We both paused to think to of the middle woman. The blonde with short-cropped hair, a strength of character and confidence that kept her moving forward, towards opportunities and people no matter their circumstance. She'd looked at me, wondered if there was some way she could intervene, to improve my lot in life.

"They need not all suffer." I held my ground. His grin faded and he slipped back into the shadows.

The dead man's shirt

When I pulled the screws out of the pocket, I ripped the dead man's flannel shirt. He wasn't still wearing it. When Old Man Wilkes down the corner of our street died, he didn't have any family except for a spinster sister he hadn't spoken with in 20 years. The city paid my boyfriend and his best friend to clean out the house. Most of it went to the trash, some went to a secondhand charity shop, and most of the flannel shirts came home with Ben.

Ben and I went our separate ways a couple of years later but I kept one of the flannel shirts. Old Man Wilkes was a handyman, known throughout town as the go-to guy for everything from fixing a lamp to small engine repair. He also did all the woodwork in his house. The red, blue and white checked shirt came to me with a few small tears and a splotch or two of paint. I wore it for inspiration whenever I had small repairs to do around the house or yard. I could feel Old Man Wilkes' skills seep into my bones through the worn flannel.

When I ripped the pocket, some of the magic spilled out with the screws. My fingers turned into chair legs and I lined things up like Picasso. Duct tape. The solution slogged its way through my foggy brain. I grabbed a silver roll of versatility to secure the pocket to the shirt. Things went back to level and my dexterity returned. From that moment on, I kept hardware in my pants pockets. The shirt was precious.

One of the side effects of wearing the shirt for too long was a desperate need for a drink. Not any drink but gin. The cheap stuff too, the kind of gin you would swear Old Man Wilkes made in his bathtub. You could taste the juniper berries strong and fresh picked. I'd be able to finish my project but would sweat all the way through thinking about how bad I needed that gin. The second my work was done I'd jump into my car and head straight to the seedy bar on the far side of town.

I know you're thinking I should have just unbuttoned the shirt and walked away. Believe me, I tried. I was straight-jacketed into that thing until I got my gin, pinched a waitress and satisfied Old Man Wilkes. He wore me as much as I wore his shirt. The old man was a pervert. He'd stare at the neighbour's underage girl through my eyes and think about how he'd do her. It didn't bother him in the least that he was working with a woman's body now. That just made it all the more fun.

I'd go months without donning that shirt. Months as a normal woman who worked in high end retail, dated wonderful men and never touched a drop of alcohol. Then the downspout would freeze to the side of the house, a cupboard door would come loose or the roof would leak. I'd try to hire someone else to do it but I had a reputation. No one would dream of doing odd jobs for me. Everyone knew I could do a much better job.

I was the town's new handyman. So what if I was a little strange? I never hurt anyone and I did great work. I'd slip on the shirt and do the job.

And the dead man laughed.

Images

She couldn't get that horrible picture out of her head.  It burrowed in deep and no amount of rubbing her eyes would release it.  Like a grit of sand, it was dry, scratchy and made her eye twitch in the days that followed.

The twitch of memory nearly drove her insane.

The image was burned into her retinas.  The twitch worsened until her eye bled, blistered and eventually burst.

Pus and blood poured from her eye, slid down her face, filled her mouth with acidic taste of fear, loathing and bitterness - a molotov cocktail of despair.

The weight of it was too much to bear.  She put her head down on the kitchen table. Like a 3D printer, the image slid from her eye and landed on the table beside her blood stained cheek.

Her husband's closed eyes, head thrown back, his hands buried in another woman's hair. The woman bent forward the long line of her bare back curving round over his lap and between his legs. The wife's reflection in the mirror across from the occupied marriage bed. A glint of silver from the knife in her hand.

Forgiveness?

Alicia tightened the belt on her dressing gown. She took a deep breath then entered the living room to confront her ex-fiance.

"Hey, I'm sorry." Katie rose from the couch then tipped back onto Brad in a fit of giggles. "Really sorry."

"I'll deal with you later." Alicia added a glare to punctuate her promise.

"It's not Katie's fault." Brad rolled her sister onto the couch and covered her with a blanket.  "I used her to get to you."

"Why?"

"Because you shut me out. You wouldn't let me explain - "

"Explain what?  That you have a thing for my mother?  My mother, Brad." She walked past him to the kitchen.

Naturally, he followed. "It wasn't what you thought."

"You weren't masturbating to a photo of my mother?"

"Yes. No."

"What do you mean no?  I saw you. I heard you."  She shuddered at the memory.  "I think it would have been easier if I'd caught you in bed with my brother."

"What?" He reared back as if she'd slapped him.  "I wouldn't cheat on you."

"But you did."  She forced herself to at least appear relaxed.  "Jason is adorable. Closer to your age than mine.  It's not your fault if you're gay."

"I'm not gay."

"Honestly." She warmed to the subject.  "Who could blame you?He's fun.  Free-living. A heart as big as Alaska."

"An alcoholic." Brad interrupted her.  "I'm not gay."

"It would be easier if you were."

"No, it wouldn't. I love you Leesh, only you."

She refused to soften because of the sincerity in his eyes.  "You're hot for my mother.  How romantic.  That's exactly what every woman wants to hear."

She stepped away from him.  "I knew had a thing for older women. I am 12 years older than you but my mother!"

He grabbed her hands to prevent her from leaving the room.  "It was an old photo."

"That makes it worse."

"She showed it to me before dinner.  She was younger than Katie in that picture.  It was startling how much she looked like I imagine you did at that age."

"You imagine my mother was me?"  She tugged on her hands but he only held tighter.  "That's even more messed up than I thought."

"I've never seen you like that - young and carefree."

"You really should stop talking. And let go."

"No. I won't." He loosened his grip but held on.  "I saw this photo of your mom and I thought about she had her youth but she stole yours.  She threw the responsibility on your shoulders because she knew you'd take care of them. She can't face Jason's drinking, Katie's reckless attitude or your dad's gambling.  She can't do it. You hold the family together. You do.  Not her."

"Now I'm a martyr?  Whatever did you see in me?"

With one hand holding her wrist, he reached into his pocket.  She recoiled at the sight of the worn, crumpled photo.

"You," he answered.  "I always saw joy in you.  Love and sacrifice yes but mostly joy."  He held the picture out and she turned her head.  The counter could use a good scrubbing. A used mug sat at the bottom of the sink.

"I've heard you laugh with complete abandon, your head thrown back as if you couldn't hold all that joy in your body."  His voice was low, husky and full of love.  "I've felt you loose, generous, thrilled to be alive in the moment."

He dropped her hand.  Her fingers were cold without his touch. She was cold without his touch.  She straightened. Nothing he said would change what he'd done.

"It had been so long since you'd been like that I'd forgotten you knew how to have fun."

"Fun? Who has time for fun when they're keeping their siblings out of jail and the family from being homeless?"

"They let you.  They don't do anything to fix their own problems because you're so much better at it."  He dropped his weight back against the kitchen table. Shoulders bowed with defeat.  "I know you love them.  They're your family."

She watched sorrow chase shadows across his eyes.  "I missed you, Alicia.  So damn much. The longer I looked at that photo, the more I realized how much I missed you.  Your scent, your touch."  He looked her straight in the eyes.  "Your laugh."

"I'm not that Alicia any more."

"You could be." He placed the photograph of her mother beside her on the kitchen counter.  "For your sake, you should be.  Don't let her steal the rest of your life."

Something inside her crumbled.  He skimmed his forefinger down her cheek, followed the path of a tear she didn't know had fallen.

"I'll let myself out."

Alicia closed her eyes and let him go.

Beauty

Last night, I dreamt I was writing about an actress about to take the stage and sing for the opera.  With each word I visualized the exact scene. When I decided she'd be better pregnant and waddling out past the father of her child, I could see the actress do so. We engaged in conversation about her role and its significance to her life. Words on the page became real but dialogue appeared on the page. It was exciting. Proof that good writing comes to life. Then the floor beneath the stage gave way to a bridge collapsing over the river. Cement blocks crumbled.  Supports tumbled. The actress vaporized. Numbers erased themselves from falling pages. And suddenly the stage was in a field within earshot of another larger stage.

Real life occurred all about me, peopled by strangers I know in another world.  Words appeared in the air in front of me - narration come to life.  As I walked, talked, directed and organized, I interacted with Real Life and Imagination simultaneously to the point where I no longer knew which was which.  And when I awoke, the strange dream continued.

Living inside a matrix of life connected by thought and action, explored and influenced to the point where life and art not only imitated each other but were one and the same. We are all one. My pain is your pain. My fear is your fear. My joy is also yours. As are my desires, dreams and wishes.

I am one with the Raven outside my tree, one with the Wolf at my front door, a reflection of the Moon and as brilliant as the Sun.  We are all connected and interwoven and part of each other.  Writing is life. Life is writing.

Create beauty. Even that which is strange or ugly to us is beautiful to another. Turn your head slightly, change your perspective and behold.

Perfection

After living without it for so long, she convinced herself she didn't need it. She was older now with different needs, wants and a body that wasn't 20 anymore.

Sure, she'd asked her friends to keep an eye out for her, read the newspaper ads and had even searched online.  Nothing. She'd heard all the platitudes, "You'll find it when you're ready", "What's for you won't go past" and the ever popular "When you least expect it".

It turned out the last one was the most accurate.  One special night,  begun with the expectation of the usual beer and pizza, the prize presented itself to her.Her eyelids fluttered closed as a rich dark scent filled her with anticipation.  She didn't realize how much she had missed it until the first taste. Her lips parted and her tongue darted out.  As sensation flooded her senses, the urge to memorize every single nuance was strong. She needed to hold onto this feeling, this joy so that she didn't go so long without experiencing it ever again.

She had dismissed the magic in order to miss it less but no more. And all the time she analyzed all that was wonderful - taste, texture, delight - her body melted.  It was the perfect kiss of flavour, sweet yet spicy.  Cool and smooth with just the right amount of pressure against her tongue.

She kept her eyes closed and enjoyed the moment.

If she never felt this again she wanted to remember how good it was to experience the taste of Hagen-Daas Mayan Chocolate ice cream.

Yikes

Alicia knew better than to try and reason with him.

The music was pumping. Beer flowing. And two-thirds of his paycheque was unspent.

From her perspective across the room and by the exit, Jason wasn't coming home any time soon.  She slipped her hood up over her head and stepped out into the rain.  The steady thump thump of club music gradually gave way to the relentless splash of rain against the pavement.  Within half a block, Alicia was soaked to the skin.

She let herself into her apartment and hung her coat up on the rack by the door. Water slid off it to drench the hall carpet.  No matter how often she talked to Jason about his drinking, her brother always blew off her concern.  He was young, gainfully employed and free to blow off steam.  He wasn't worried about losing his apartment or going hungry because he had parents and four other siblings. Never mind that most of them were married with families of their own, Jason was the baby. And everyone took care of the baby.

Alicia plugged in the kettle, took down her favourite mug and contemplated how to get through to Jason. He was an adult. It was time he took responsibility for his own actions.  It was time she let him sink or swim under his own power.  She was done looking out for him. Done feeding him, done housing him and done lying to everyone about how well he was doing with his life.

Alicia poured boiling water over the tea bag and set the timer. While the tea steeped, she walked into the bathroom and filled the tub. A splash of soothing lavender bath salts dissolved in the steaming water.  Once bath and tea were ready, she cranked the volume on her tablet, set the mug on the floor beside the tub and stepped in to the hot water.

Pure bliss.  Forget Jason. Forget his crappy attitude.  Forget it all.  She filled her lungs with the scented steam and closed her eyes.

A creak in the hallway caused a frown. She lived alone.

A crash followed by a giggle and Alicia knew exactly who was in the hallway.  "Katie?"

Her younger sister stuck her head in the bathroom doorway.  "Hey, Alicia.  You'll never believe who I ran into at Dev's."

"I have no idea."  She pulled the bubbles up her chest.  "Get out and let me get dressed."

"Hey, Alicia."  A green-eyed blond head joined Katie's in the doorway.  "Nice bubbles."

"Brad." Alicia hooked her foot over the tub's edge and used it to slam the door shut.  So much de-stressing after the bar. Nothing like your ex ogling you to increase your blood pressure and fill you with mortification.

She yanked the drain stopper loose, sloshed herself out of the tub and grabbed her dressing gown.  Wet hair plastered to the back of her neck so she scooped it up to secure with a clip.  A deep breath to fortify herself, along with the reminder that she dumped him, and Alicia was ready to face Brad and Katie.

There was no good reason she'd bring Alicia's ex over unless Katie was intent on giving Jason a run for his money as the family drunk.  Alcohol had clearly destroyed all her brain cells. The audio feed of Thanksgiving played on a loop as Alicia walked down the hall.

Would she ever forget the sound of squeaky bedsprings and impassioned moaning?  Her life was a freakin' cliche.  Not that it was bad enough to catch her fiance pumping away in her bed but to catch him alone was worse. Brad had one hand around himself and another crushed around a photo of Alicia's mother.

Love

Clarissa tugged the bedcovers up to her chin then rolled on to her side.  She wrapped herself around her full body pillow.  There was no where she needed to be today.  Good thing. Her limbs felt like cement and the weather was gloomy, grey and wet.

She shivered.  Raindrops hit the window then raced down the glass. After a few minutes of watching, she was confident that the left side had the faster track.  Her eyelids drifted shut and she let them.

A few minutes later, she opened her eyes. Her head felt thick and heavy as if she'd spent the night crying. She had not.  Her whole body ached.  The barometric pressure weighed heavily upon her. The rain hit the window harder. A quick glance at the clock indicated her catnap had lasted two hours.  She really should get out of bed.

There was no real reason to do so. No work clock to punch, no pressing engagements, nothing demanded her attention.

"This is why you should get a dog."

Clarissa closed her eyes and wished the illusion away.

"Give it up, Babe."  The bed sank beneath Bob's weight as his arms wrapped around her from behind.  "I'm every where you are."

"Go away, Bob." She shrugged off his weight. "It's too Alan Rickman."

"But I love you. Truly."

"Madly. Deeply. I know."  She sighed and rolled onto her back.  "It was a stupid movie."

"No.  It was a great movie. She wasn't letting go. She wouldn't move on."  Bob slid his hand across her midriff.  "He came back so that she'd stop whitewashing their relationship into this perfect entity that it wasn't. No relationship is perfect. Ours wasn't."

"I remember everything, Bob."  She rolled over to face him.  "You drank the last of the milk then put the empty container back in the fridge. You never emptied the dishwasher or the garbage."

She picked his hand up to examine it. Cancer had eaten his flesh til all that remained was splotchy skin over brittle bones.  Now his hand looked like it hand when he was young and healthy - broad with thick fingers and callouses and burn scars from working at the foundry.

"You left me."

"I tried everything, Clar. Chemo, radiation, drug trials, fad diets, supplements, colonics. I tried everything we could find to beat the cancer and stay with you."

Clarissa dropped his hand.  "Go away."

"I can't until you forgive me."

"Fine.It's not your fault you got cancer and died, Bob. You're forgiven. Now leave me alone."

"Forgive me for the affair."

Shocked, she rolled over to face him.  "You slept with my boss and didn't think I'd find out?"

"I didn't think you'd care."

"So now it's my fault?"

"No." He frowned. "I was the idiot.  I was lonely and afraid of losing you so instead of being a man I flirted with Janet.  She smelled like gardenias."

"She owned a florist shop."

"Yes, she did. And you came home all the time smelling of roses and men's cologne. So instead of being a man and having an honest conversation -" His voice broke.  "Instead of asking you if you were leaving me for him, I slept with her."

"There was no him."

"I know that now."

"Because now that you're dead, you're omniscient?"

"No because Janet told me about the trick of spraying some of the cards with cologne so some women could make their husbands jealous. Juvenile but effective."  He winced.   "How did you find out?"

"When I quit my job to take care of you."

"Why would Janet say anything?"

"Because she was a mean-spirited bitch."  Clarissa stared up at the ceiling.  The stucco needed repainting. There was a streak of colour at the wall's edge.

"I am sorry.  It was stupid.  You're the only woman I ever truly loved."  Bob touched her shoulder.  "Why did you stay?"

"Because I did love love you. Truly. Madly. Deeply." She sighed.  "Because I wanted you to get better so we could fight about it. I wanted you to realize I was worth so much more than to be cheated on, betrayed.  Because I wanted you to beg forgiveness. You never did."

"I am now."

Clarissa dragged herself into a sitting position. The painting at the foot of her bed mocked her with its black and white message. Right and wrong. Good and evil.

She shivered and turned towards her dead husband.  "No, you're not.  This is all me, rehashing the same old argument we never had.  Me, wanting a ghost to tell me all the things you never did. You're not real, Bob."

Her gaze met a blank wall. He wasn't there. He never was.

The mirror

Ally waved good-bye to her friends and pedaled home. This summer was going to be the best one ever. Three days since school ended and they'd already gone canoeing every day, swung off the rope into the cold water and seen Jason Harlen in his cut-offs.

It wasn't dark yet but Mom would have supper ready just as soon as Dad got home.  Ally cycled past the bakery, over the train tracks and up the street.  She hoped it was mac n cheese. Not the best meal for a hot day but still her favourite.

"Hey, Greg." She braked at the bottom of the hill that led to their front yard. Her younger brother hunkered down in the ditch, muttering at himself in a hand mirror.

"Freak."

"Pardon?" She swung off her bike and sat down beside him.

"I'm a freak."

"No,you're not."  Ally put her arm around his thin shoulder and gave a small squeeze.  "Why would you say something like that?"

"Billy Schmidt said I was a freak."  He scowled at his face in the mirror.

"Billy Schmidt is a poppy-head."  Her brother didn't laugh.

"Bobby and Ryan laughed at me.  They said I even looked like a freak!"

"You don't look like a freak."

Greg stared at himself even harder.

Ally tried to take the mirror from him. He had a strong grip for such a little kid. "You're not a freak."

"Yes, I am. Look!"  He turned his face up towards her.

"Where did you get the mirror?"  She gently pried it out of his hands, one finger at a time.

"I snuck it out of Mommy's purse."  His bottom lip quivered.  "I'm a freak and a thief."

"You're not either one of those things."

"Yes, I am."  He grabbed the mirror back from Ally.  "They said I had big round eyes just like a freak.  They said Mommy and Daddy are going to lock me away. That freaks don't belong in school."

"I'm going to punch all three of those boys."  She leaned over Greg's shoulder so that both of their faces were reflected back at them.  "Look.  My eyes are the same as yours. Same shape.  Round.  We are not freaks."

"Yes, we are!" Tears flowed from Greg's eyes. "We're both freaks and some guys are going to take us away from Mommy and Daddy and make us live in square rooms with padded walls and we'll never be able to see each other again."

"We are not freaks."

"Yes. Yes, we are. We have big round eyes."

"Oh, for pity's sake!" Ally grabbed the mirror from Greg and threw it into the ditch.  It broke into several big pieces. She'd come back and clean the mess up later. Right now, she had a bigger problem.

"Let's go inside and talk to Mommy.  She has big round eyes just like we do and she's not a freak. She didn't get taken away from Grandma and Grandpa.  C'mon."  Ally tugged Greg to his feet.  "Let's go inside."

"Mommy's going to be mad that you broke her mirror."

"I don't think so, Rusty.  I don't think she'll blame me at all." She hugged him tight.