nikki (1996 - 1999)

You were brash at first. It was probably your defense mechanism.

But we became friends, quickly. Lounging in Eaton’s on the recliners.

I wonder why you haven’t friended me on Facebook.

nicholas (1992 - 1996)

I teased you about your chin. It was a mean thing to do.

I think at this point in my life I realized that words really can hurt someone.

I’m sorry.

lost

I went to your mom’s house. Because that’s what people do. They make the effort to visit in times like these. She greeted me at the door with a smile and a hug. I knew she was smiling simply for the company. I’m sure she was lonely, despite the fact that you moved out a few years earlier. Her kind of lonely wasn’t something one gets used to.

We made small talk in the doorway, and that was when I noticed you at the top of the stairs. In a t-shirt and shorts; Umbros or Champions. You were lounging. Totally at home. And I was stunned to see you there. You ran down the carpeted stairs, smoothly, and when you got to me you enveloped me in an embrace.

At your request I followed you downstairs, to your room, just as your mom was heading out the door. She called out a goodbye, waved and closed the door. “So, how is your mom doing?” I asked you when she’d gone. “She’s fine,” you told me, “She’s just stressed because we are going on a vacation and she has so much to do before we leave.”

You seemed to know what was going on, yet I was still confused. You lead me to your room, where I sat on one of two twin beds. I didn’t get comfortable; instead I perched on the edge. “So… how are you?” You turned from your desk, what appeared to be too small for you, left over from Junior High/High School days, “Good. I just have a lot of studying and work to do with these exams coming up.” Something was wrong. It just didn’t make sense. You were finished with school years ago.

I stood up from the bed, just as two of our other friends came into the room. They jumped up and down on the beds like monkeys. One would go up as the other was coming down. I wasn’t watching them but could see them in the reflection of the mirror.

We had a conversation through the mirror, both of us not facing each other, but the wall.

I asked you, “Do you know, Steph, that you died two months ago?”

tiny dancer

She believes things come in threes. Namely deaths. She believes this as though it were a natural law. When one person dies, two more are sure to follow. It’s to be expected.

A celebrity dies, breaking news on CNN, followed by one of her acquaintances, she will announce, “They come in threes.” She thinks any one person can die and that will tie into the third. But they have to have relation to each other. Three celebrities. Three politicians. Three friends. Three family. Not a celebrity, a religious leader and a family member. We roll our eyes at her, but she continues to believe.

If it’s on the news, or written about, it must be true. She reads the obituaries every morning with her coffee. She’s far from graceful, but she always answers the phone with a smile on her face. She has a tendency to steal things from restaurants. Like salt & pepper shakers, ashtrays, or water jugs. Of course this means nothing in her kitchen matches, but they’re all treasured by her.

She repeats clichés so often that it becomes timed. “Lining their pockets” is a favourite of hers, said mostly in regards to politicians. She won’t say the word ‘fat’ instead she chooses to demonstrate what fat looks like as she circles her arms around her body in wide circles. She thinks this is less obvious than saying the word itself.

There are times that she looks old, older than she is, usually when she is worried. And there are times when she looks young, younger than she is, usually when she is tucked under his arm. She doesn’t laugh at herself.

She’s obsessive to a degree that is dangerously close to compulsive, but not just yet. She’s fearless, yet she panics in the face of a challenge. She’s thoughtful, but part of me wonders if it isn’t just habit. She nods and mmm-hmmms when she agrees with something on TV and when she disagrees she clucks her tongue at the screen. She gives a run-down of everything going on around her even though we can see it as well.

She can’t keep a secret, even at Christmas. When she laughs, you can’t help but join in. Even when the joke is on you.

brett (1992)

Then: My sixth grade crush.

Now: My twenty-six year old crush.

Later: Let’s just see how you look tonight before I crush on you for next sixty-seven years of my life.

jamie (circa 1984)

A blonde headed little boy with a bowl cut living in my neighbourhood.

We were friends. Then you moved. Haven’t seen you since.

I sometimes think I might actually marry you.

sifting

Four posts in eight months. Pitiful.

I have so not kept up with the New Year's Resolutions.

More to come. Just organizing the dreadful from the survivable.

gone away

Something is stuck. Somewhere between my diaphragm and my throat, but closer to my throat. Its edges billow up every now and then and catch me short of breath. It’s been there for months, waiting for its release.

I was sure I’d gotten it all out months ago. That the crying and the screaming would’ve rid me from this sinking feeling. But it remains. Tear soaked pillows in the middle of the night, and sad songs have done nothing to ease this pain. Pretending you’re traveling in some far off land has done nothing to comfort me.

You’re just not here anymore.

sullen

I was just thinking the other day that my title, Beautifully Broken, may not suit me any more. I felt re-built, even if just a little bit. Enough to give me hope and a will to re-build the rest of me.

I spoke too soon.

But pain, heartache and feeling adrift is what makes it so much easier for me to write.

Cheers to my somewhat shaky emotional state!

dandelion clock

She’s not even dead yet and her possessions are already scattered among her family. She has given away objects she cannot take with her; physical memories we are supposed to replace with our own. A 50th birthday present, a Christmas gift; once treasured pieces, now left to collect dust among the belongings we cling to.

She is preparing for her death, which is inevitable. Erasing herself from the earth; bills, bank statements, greeting cards are all being shredded. Anything personal, anything that may be stolen, or duplicated. Anything she doesn’t need before she dies. Sentimentality isn’t something she is concerned with at the moment. Cleaning up her life before it is over, that is what consumes her. Tying up those loose ends; selling her house and her car, finding a home for her loyal and beloved dog. Her death is all business.

All her worldly possessions have been split up, quartered and adopted. She’s given her life away before it even ends. Her death will descend, not unexpectedly, among those of us left living, and we will go on, slowly at first, afraid to laugh, or smile. I wonder when we will start to see her belongings as our own. When it will stop feeling like we’ve just made room temporarily. Not permanently. For life.

in the audience

This blog has only existed for a very short time. I’m still trying to get the rhythm down. I didn’t create this blog to have lots and lots of fans, though I do love those that comment, their thoughts and feelings about something I have written, and I am encouraging you to continue commenting.

I know that some day I will write something that will hit a nerve with a few people, but I am prepared to accept this. I just read something that I hope will renew my fervor for writing (I believe that was one of my resolutions…). “If the audience is on their feet at the end of the play, you have done your job. If the audience is booing at the end, you have also done your job. You never want polite applause*.”

This blog is for me, but you read it. I want you to have strong reactions to it; good or bad.

I hope that once things start to calm down where I am that I will once again post… perhaps sooner, rather than later. But rest assured I am still here.

*Quote