And it's a bit too late, now, for teenaged insecurities and changing in the bathroom. It's a bit too late to become an adult bulimic or a red wine alcoholic. It's a bit too late, but you've missed it somehow even though you go over and over it in your head and can't quite pinpoint where it went. And yet the hands you love so much that firmly grasp your weakened shoulders to push you away are real - they're there and the intent is clear even though your head feels fuzzy.
And so why, then, is everything around me settled? Why are there weddings, and babies and dining room sets and living room carpets and fridges bought on credit and loveseats paid in full?
Monday, March 24, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Captured
"It's ok for you to say what you want from me. I believe it's the only way for me to be exactly what you want me to be."
-Wilco
It's strange how a camera can capture a moment where everything in your heart felt perfectly at peace. And how that brief flicker of an instant throws colour on all the grey, murky doubt, casting a bright, welcome shadow.
-Wilco
It's strange how a camera can capture a moment where everything in your heart felt perfectly at peace. And how that brief flicker of an instant throws colour on all the grey, murky doubt, casting a bright, welcome shadow.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Seesaw
'I trust no emotion. I believe in locomotion.'
-Jeff Tweedy
So of course everyone around you thinks you're completely crazy and the sympathetic smiles and the hands that cover yours make your stomach turn to water. But, for some reason, you cannot erase the memories of wine-fueled summer nights on a front porch and the tangled mess of clothes on the floor. Of iceburg-chasing boat rides and CBC Saturday mornings and too much coffee and an easy smile that has burned it's memory into your brain, forever taunting.
-Jeff Tweedy
So of course everyone around you thinks you're completely crazy and the sympathetic smiles and the hands that cover yours make your stomach turn to water. But, for some reason, you cannot erase the memories of wine-fueled summer nights on a front porch and the tangled mess of clothes on the floor. Of iceburg-chasing boat rides and CBC Saturday mornings and too much coffee and an easy smile that has burned it's memory into your brain, forever taunting.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Cool
Overheard in a conversation amongst fifth graders on a Vancouver City bus.
'Everybody thinks he's so cool, but, but, but he's not. He's married!'
'Everybody thinks he's so cool, but, but, but he's not. He's married!'
Sunday, January 13, 2008
To you.
And to you, because I know you’re here, I miss you, despite it all.
There are moments when I realize just how much you got me through. And I can hear your voice in my head telling me to get it together, to seriously get my shit together because it’s starting to become ridiculous and on the days when I do manage to hold my head just a little bit higher, to you, because I know you’re here, well, that’s thanks to you.
There are moments when I realize just how much you got me through. And I can hear your voice in my head telling me to get it together, to seriously get my shit together because it’s starting to become ridiculous and on the days when I do manage to hold my head just a little bit higher, to you, because I know you’re here, well, that’s thanks to you.
Gloss
'It's become so obvious, that you're so oblivious, to yourself.'
Wilco
And it’s funny how you cross over. How you swallow a bit harder and smile a bit brighter. How you pretend. How you laugh, how you say what you don’t mean and you say it again until you’ve convinced yourself. Or at least, him. And how you feel so betrayed that he buys all your crap. Because it isn’t great, it isn’t even good and the high ceilings and the bamboo floors and the sunken living room and the fireplace – those things are someone you don’t even know.
Someone you aren’t sure you want to know. And what you want to say, what you want to tell him is that you want poor heating and bad lighting and doors that don’t lock and windows you have to slam shut. That Porsches are dumb and Parisian balconies are for jumping off of. That you want scruffy hair and lopsided smiles and you just aren't sure anything else will do at all.
Wilco
And it’s funny how you cross over. How you swallow a bit harder and smile a bit brighter. How you pretend. How you laugh, how you say what you don’t mean and you say it again until you’ve convinced yourself. Or at least, him. And how you feel so betrayed that he buys all your crap. Because it isn’t great, it isn’t even good and the high ceilings and the bamboo floors and the sunken living room and the fireplace – those things are someone you don’t even know.
Someone you aren’t sure you want to know. And what you want to say, what you want to tell him is that you want poor heating and bad lighting and doors that don’t lock and windows you have to slam shut. That Porsches are dumb and Parisian balconies are for jumping off of. That you want scruffy hair and lopsided smiles and you just aren't sure anything else will do at all.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Away from her
"What was I thinking, when I said it didn't hurt?"
-Wilco
My dad is an airline pilot and when I was a kid, and he would go away on trips, I would pack and sneak elaborate snacks into his suitcase when he wasn't looking. Snacks made of delicacies such as Chips Ahoy! cookies and swiss rolls, things that undoubtedly could not be had in far-off places such as Chile or Calgary.
In my mind, these carefully packed bundles were sure to provide some small, cherished comfort that would serve to ease was must surely be the worst possible pain of all - being away from me. So imagine my dumbfounded confusion when I padded, slippered and pyjama-ed down the hall early one morning, to slip one of my carepackages into his flight bag, and there lay the startling, sweet evidence that my existence was not all-consuming on the other side of the world. Maybe not even at home. The four, chocolate chip cookies and homemade brownies (I had really outdone myself that time) from last week, remained untouched - their love and reassurance untapped.
It's funny, how you can feel like a six-year old girl in a 26 year-old woman's body when someone who means so much, too much, really, lives on the other side of your country. How you can be reduced to a cookie-pushing mess unable to see, unable to grasp, how that someone, can be ok, being without you. And you somehow manage to hold back from infusing their dusty corners, and you smile smiles that are too bright. And no one notices but you.
And so, and maybe some space, Heather. And California, maybe, Heather. El Dorado. And can you watch my dog, can you feed her, walk her, love her? What about the grey, what about the yellow? And is my hair ok? How about these shoes? You think? And my ticket, the airport, five-thirty, really? And, of course, of course. Oh, but of course. There is gas in the car and money for pizza if you want, and the wine-opener is in the righthand drawer. Oh, and there are cookies in the cupboard.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Enough
It's hard when you realize that it will never be enough.
Because you're there already, aren't you? You did what you set out to do and you're there, you're here, you're it all and it's not very much. It's nothing at all, really.
It looked bigger on paper.
Much bigger.
And so, what now, where now, where to, who to, and what then, what after that?
And then?
It's hard when you realize that your entire life is a plan. It's always the next day, the next week, the next month, next year, next time.
I walked out of my professor's office the other day encouraged. Jubilant, maybe. And yet, I recognized that feeling - the one I had when I found out I would be coming here. And it hit me then, that I had fooled myself into thinking this would be enough, that this time, it was enough.
It is never enough.
Because you're there already, aren't you? You did what you set out to do and you're there, you're here, you're it all and it's not very much. It's nothing at all, really.
It looked bigger on paper.
Much bigger.
And so, what now, where now, where to, who to, and what then, what after that?
And then?
It's hard when you realize that your entire life is a plan. It's always the next day, the next week, the next month, next year, next time.
I walked out of my professor's office the other day encouraged. Jubilant, maybe. And yet, I recognized that feeling - the one I had when I found out I would be coming here. And it hit me then, that I had fooled myself into thinking this would be enough, that this time, it was enough.
It is never enough.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Page one
I remember a few years ago one of my best friends made a temporary move to Sydney, Australia. The hardest part, she said, was knowing that she could walk down the street armed with the full, yet sad knowledge that there was absolutely no possibility of bumping into someone she knew.
The sun was beautiful and bright that morning and as I made my way along Point Grey Road, it seemed perfectly natural that he should be there, that he should call out my name, hop of his bike, and we would walk there together.
Tonight, as I sat around a crowded table, filled with pitchers of beer and Diet Cokes, half-eaten plates of pizza and discarded napkins, I looked at the smiling faces around me and remembered, with a deep sense of pleasure, how good it feels to laugh, to really laugh, until tears well in your eyes and threaten to spill.
It made me realize that it is a beginning that is starting, slowly, to take shape and to take hold, and that while the middle and the end remain so strangely unknown, that the first page has been turned.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
In between
Sometimes, I think it would be very peaceful to live in between.
In between cups of lukewarm tea in paint-chipped mugs. In between black and white photographs, between winter nights and wine-soaked summer suppers. In between organic cafes and trips to a market. In between runs in the rain and slow walks by the ocean. In between phone calls home, in between cold mornings wrapped in afghan blankets.
In between.
Because sometimes, living on either end, is where the hurt is.
In between cups of lukewarm tea in paint-chipped mugs. In between black and white photographs, between winter nights and wine-soaked summer suppers. In between organic cafes and trips to a market. In between runs in the rain and slow walks by the ocean. In between phone calls home, in between cold mornings wrapped in afghan blankets.
In between.
Because sometimes, living on either end, is where the hurt is.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
A love quad-rangle
Just to look at her, you know she takes her coffee with sugar. And probably with 35% cream. Because it tastes good and that is enough.
She has a knapsack slung over her shoulder and the straps are worn. She’s a Vancouver Film School student but you know she doesn’t carry the bag so that people know. She carries it because it’s comfortable and that is enough.
Her hair is a tawny shade of bottled red, her jeans are frayed. Her leather jacket is a size too small because it wasn’t bought for her. But it’s warm and it’s worn and that is enough.
Her boyfriend hands her back her thermos of coffee, a small hand poking out of a sleeve too long. He stares at her. She laughs.
“I’ll be back by ten,” she says. She promises.
She places a Dock Martined-foot on the first step of the bus, turns her broad, smiling face towards his. “Have a good day, babe,” she drawls. He stares. She laughs.
A barely audible sigh escapes from this small man, this boy, with a thrift shop plaid jacket and a walkman in the pocket of his Levi’s. He’s still wearing the Ramones t-shirt he wore to bed because it smells like her. He turns to walk away, to start his day, to start to fill the hours between now and 10 tonight, when his world will feel right again.
A couple gets on the bus. A powerful couple. His hair is full of K-Pax, his shoes are shined. He’s tired, he was up at 5 and in the gym; he doesn’t drink coffee. He doesn’t believe in coffee. He is conscious of the eyes that turn, he awaits their recognition. He welcomes and shuns them. He glances over at the film school girl and straightens the collar of his Banana Republic trench coat.
A woman sits down beside him. Her electric blue rain coat looks strangely obscene on such a grey day. She is thin in a nervous way, her face is pretty, but drawn. She will not be attractive when she’s 45 and she knows this. She drinks coffee in the bathroom and munches anxiously on soy beans during her lunch hour. An engagement ring fits loosely on her finger – no wedding band yet snuggles up against it. But it will come. Oh but of course it will come!
She opens up an oversized leather purse, pulls out a cellphone with a poodle charm hanging from it. She flips rapidly through the screen, and curls up next to her fiancé. ‘Look at that one, babe, isn’t it just soo cute of us?’ Arms crossed, he allows his head to tip slightly. A forced smile mercifully curls out from a strong, pronounced jaw – he remains silent. She is encouraged and tries again. “How about this one – adorable!” This time, he verbally agrees with the digital representation of their lives, of his life. He is in pain.
They get off the bus and she immediately tucks a bright blue arm in his. It is teeming rain – she shields her salon-styled hair with her purse. She stumbles in her heels – he doesn’t change his pace. He forges ahead, and they fall out of step. The distance between them grows.
And as film school girl bops off the bus, her face, her hair, her smile gratefully meeting the rain, I couldn’t help but think, how right would it be, how peaceful would it be, what an awakening would it be, were film school girl to spend a night in a smoky bar with Banana boy, for nervous soy muncher to spend a night laughing, really and truly laughing over a bowl of greasy popcorn and beer, with a man who actually saw her. Sometimes, all is just not right with our worlds, and it's such a shame that sometimes, only strangers on buses on rainy Vancouver days, can see this.
She has a knapsack slung over her shoulder and the straps are worn. She’s a Vancouver Film School student but you know she doesn’t carry the bag so that people know. She carries it because it’s comfortable and that is enough.
Her hair is a tawny shade of bottled red, her jeans are frayed. Her leather jacket is a size too small because it wasn’t bought for her. But it’s warm and it’s worn and that is enough.
Her boyfriend hands her back her thermos of coffee, a small hand poking out of a sleeve too long. He stares at her. She laughs.
“I’ll be back by ten,” she says. She promises.
She places a Dock Martined-foot on the first step of the bus, turns her broad, smiling face towards his. “Have a good day, babe,” she drawls. He stares. She laughs.
A barely audible sigh escapes from this small man, this boy, with a thrift shop plaid jacket and a walkman in the pocket of his Levi’s. He’s still wearing the Ramones t-shirt he wore to bed because it smells like her. He turns to walk away, to start his day, to start to fill the hours between now and 10 tonight, when his world will feel right again.
A couple gets on the bus. A powerful couple. His hair is full of K-Pax, his shoes are shined. He’s tired, he was up at 5 and in the gym; he doesn’t drink coffee. He doesn’t believe in coffee. He is conscious of the eyes that turn, he awaits their recognition. He welcomes and shuns them. He glances over at the film school girl and straightens the collar of his Banana Republic trench coat.
A woman sits down beside him. Her electric blue rain coat looks strangely obscene on such a grey day. She is thin in a nervous way, her face is pretty, but drawn. She will not be attractive when she’s 45 and she knows this. She drinks coffee in the bathroom and munches anxiously on soy beans during her lunch hour. An engagement ring fits loosely on her finger – no wedding band yet snuggles up against it. But it will come. Oh but of course it will come!
She opens up an oversized leather purse, pulls out a cellphone with a poodle charm hanging from it. She flips rapidly through the screen, and curls up next to her fiancé. ‘Look at that one, babe, isn’t it just soo cute of us?’ Arms crossed, he allows his head to tip slightly. A forced smile mercifully curls out from a strong, pronounced jaw – he remains silent. She is encouraged and tries again. “How about this one – adorable!” This time, he verbally agrees with the digital representation of their lives, of his life. He is in pain.
They get off the bus and she immediately tucks a bright blue arm in his. It is teeming rain – she shields her salon-styled hair with her purse. She stumbles in her heels – he doesn’t change his pace. He forges ahead, and they fall out of step. The distance between them grows.
And as film school girl bops off the bus, her face, her hair, her smile gratefully meeting the rain, I couldn’t help but think, how right would it be, how peaceful would it be, what an awakening would it be, were film school girl to spend a night in a smoky bar with Banana boy, for nervous soy muncher to spend a night laughing, really and truly laughing over a bowl of greasy popcorn and beer, with a man who actually saw her. Sometimes, all is just not right with our worlds, and it's such a shame that sometimes, only strangers on buses on rainy Vancouver days, can see this.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
A city's finest
Alright.
So I just moved here, and I'm in no position to pass judgement on what has aptly been dubbed North America's most beautiful city. But coming from a lifetime in Montreal, to be plopped down in Vancouver, does not come without it's challenges.
And so, while freckled mothers here feed their wide-eyed children named Juliet or Charles peeled apple slices dipped in white organic honey, while people compost and gaze at you with deliberate, though passive horror as you accidentally jog over into the 'bikers' lane, as people smile and wave and wish you a great day and actually mean it, while the sun commands you from the sky, in all its yellow glory, to be happy, to be bright, while people discuss the virtues of slicing open vanilla beans diagonally as opposed to straight, while people let their dogs run free and their cars on biofuel, while the beaches are packed with grandmothers doing yoga, all of this, all of this and more, makes a girl a little nostalgic.
A little nostalgic for a night on a Montreal street where Guy would stagger out from Saint Sulpice bar, to vomit his twelve Labatt Blues all over his Walmart running shoes, to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, not bothering to roll up the sleeve of his Point Zero shirt, to place his hands firmly on his knees, to turn in the direction of his buddy Jean who leans out the door to shout that he's ordering another round, and is that cool, and of course, and oh but of course, Guy nods his head in an emphatic 'yes' because that, all of that and more, is Montreal.
So I just moved here, and I'm in no position to pass judgement on what has aptly been dubbed North America's most beautiful city. But coming from a lifetime in Montreal, to be plopped down in Vancouver, does not come without it's challenges.
And so, while freckled mothers here feed their wide-eyed children named Juliet or Charles peeled apple slices dipped in white organic honey, while people compost and gaze at you with deliberate, though passive horror as you accidentally jog over into the 'bikers' lane, as people smile and wave and wish you a great day and actually mean it, while the sun commands you from the sky, in all its yellow glory, to be happy, to be bright, while people discuss the virtues of slicing open vanilla beans diagonally as opposed to straight, while people let their dogs run free and their cars on biofuel, while the beaches are packed with grandmothers doing yoga, all of this, all of this and more, makes a girl a little nostalgic.
A little nostalgic for a night on a Montreal street where Guy would stagger out from Saint Sulpice bar, to vomit his twelve Labatt Blues all over his Walmart running shoes, to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, not bothering to roll up the sleeve of his Point Zero shirt, to place his hands firmly on his knees, to turn in the direction of his buddy Jean who leans out the door to shout that he's ordering another round, and is that cool, and of course, and oh but of course, Guy nods his head in an emphatic 'yes' because that, all of that and more, is Montreal.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Soul surfing
Some observations on Vancouver.
There are more dogs than people in this city.
A person's salary can largely be determined by the type of coffee he or she drinks. The sliding scale runs from Tim Hortons, to Starbucks, to rest at Antigua, which boasts a $200 cup, if you're so inclined.
Despite the strike that is running into its seventh week, the streets are exceedingly clean. And that is because all the city's litter is being dumped into the downtown eastside.
People here have disturbingly low BMI's. I am beginning to suspect that Vancouver ships all its overweight citizens out onto islands somewhere, along with the garbage that overflows from the downtown eastside.
People who pass you on the street at 6:30 a.m. as you trudge your way to school smile at you with toothy, soul-penetrating smiles that make you feel strangely violated that early in the morning.
Stores have insultingly obvious names, such as moMENtum, for a males-only spa.
Everyone is blond. Everyone is always discussing his or her existential crisis while simultaneously balancing a cup of non-fat-mocha-latte-extra-tall-extra-hot-extra-extra-blah-blah-do-I-sound-cool-yet-do-I-do-I, while stretching into the downward dog position on his or her LuLu yoga mat. Everyone has a gay best friend.
Oh. And I saw two complete heads of hair lying on the pavement as I crossed the Burrard Street bridge the other day. I'm not entirely certain how that fits in with anything, but there it is.
There are more dogs than people in this city.
A person's salary can largely be determined by the type of coffee he or she drinks. The sliding scale runs from Tim Hortons, to Starbucks, to rest at Antigua, which boasts a $200 cup, if you're so inclined.
Despite the strike that is running into its seventh week, the streets are exceedingly clean. And that is because all the city's litter is being dumped into the downtown eastside.
People here have disturbingly low BMI's. I am beginning to suspect that Vancouver ships all its overweight citizens out onto islands somewhere, along with the garbage that overflows from the downtown eastside.
People who pass you on the street at 6:30 a.m. as you trudge your way to school smile at you with toothy, soul-penetrating smiles that make you feel strangely violated that early in the morning.
Stores have insultingly obvious names, such as moMENtum, for a males-only spa.
Everyone is blond. Everyone is always discussing his or her existential crisis while simultaneously balancing a cup of non-fat-mocha-latte-extra-tall-extra-hot-extra-extra-blah-blah-do-I-sound-cool-yet-do-I-do-I, while stretching into the downward dog position on his or her LuLu yoga mat. Everyone has a gay best friend.
Oh. And I saw two complete heads of hair lying on the pavement as I crossed the Burrard Street bridge the other day. I'm not entirely certain how that fits in with anything, but there it is.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Daybreak
The morning comes quickly and no sun greets you. And yet, everything seems a bit brighter, somehow. You turn and look into an unsmiling face, and the arms that reach out squeeze a little too tight.
And yet, not tight enough.
Salut, Montreal. You have been good to me.
And yet, not tight enough.
Salut, Montreal. You have been good to me.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Heart of Hearts
As I get ready to make a cross-country move, I am reminded that home isn't where you lay your head - it's where you lay your heart.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Dead on impact
I got an e-mail this morning from someone I dated very briefly last winter. We parted amicably, and so to see a message with his name on it in my inbox wasn't surprising, as we had made very casual plans to see each other some time in the next two weeks or so, before I head off to BC. I had to cancel those very same plans this weekend, and felt no real sense of urgency to reschedule, which was why the content of his message this morning struck me as so bizarre.
Mmmm there is something in particular I wanted to talk to you about. I have seen a therapist a few times since our relationship ended, and one of the things we talked about was you. I thought it might be insightful for you to hear some of the things that I took away from those conversations. Don't worry. I don't think it would be an unpleasant conversation for you...perhaps a little bit uncomfortable at worse, but there is also a chance you might find it...hmmm...educational *lol*.
That being said, I am not sure if I am feeling an urge to talk with you more for my benefit or your own. Well...I'll leave it to your judgment to decide if you have time for a talk. I suppose I could just write you a letter instead.
It amazes me the impact you can have on someone's life, when taking leave of their company brought you nothing less than a sheer sense of relief. It leaves me stunned that a four-week period in my life I can barely recall the details of, and am not particularly interested even in revisiting mentally, could have prompted someone to spend even five minutes worth of a therapy session discussing.
And yet, the reason for my amazement, and subsequent sadness, is the realization that some of the men who have had the greatest impact on my own life, likely felt that same sense of relief when they walked out of my proverbial door. It feels so tragic in a way, that the surest way to hurt someone, is to feel indifferent towards their pain, because that is the one thing you simply cannot help.
The heart, as they say, does not lie.
Mmmm there is something in particular I wanted to talk to you about. I have seen a therapist a few times since our relationship ended, and one of the things we talked about was you. I thought it might be insightful for you to hear some of the things that I took away from those conversations. Don't worry. I don't think it would be an unpleasant conversation for you...perhaps a little bit uncomfortable at worse, but there is also a chance you might find it...hmmm...educational *lol*.
That being said, I am not sure if I am feeling an urge to talk with you more for my benefit or your own. Well...I'll leave it to your judgment to decide if you have time for a talk. I suppose I could just write you a letter instead.
It amazes me the impact you can have on someone's life, when taking leave of their company brought you nothing less than a sheer sense of relief. It leaves me stunned that a four-week period in my life I can barely recall the details of, and am not particularly interested even in revisiting mentally, could have prompted someone to spend even five minutes worth of a therapy session discussing.
And yet, the reason for my amazement, and subsequent sadness, is the realization that some of the men who have had the greatest impact on my own life, likely felt that same sense of relief when they walked out of my proverbial door. It feels so tragic in a way, that the surest way to hurt someone, is to feel indifferent towards their pain, because that is the one thing you simply cannot help.
The heart, as they say, does not lie.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Cheesecake
It's the intense, blinding hatred you feel for your telephone and the inability to see the madness behind such emotion for an inanimate object. It's the questions, the ambiguous answers and the questions that come from those answers. It's the roller coaster ride. It's the wondering how on earth you ever managed to sleep alone every night, and how you will again. It's sex that leaves you starved, it's intimacy that leaves you ravaged. It's you, betraying everything you thought you were, and loving, hating every minute of it. It's the clear sense that you, are slipping away from you, it's the fogginess, the blurred edges, the impossibility of interpretation. It's the shift, it's the change, it's a tiredness you can't quite name. It's knowing and it's ignorance.
It's sitting at your friend's kitchen table and watching as her husband cuts her a third piece of cheesecake and knowing you will never have that.
It's sitting at your friend's kitchen table and watching as her husband cuts her a third piece of cheesecake and knowing you will never have that.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Unfortunate Coincidence
By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying ---
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.
-Dorothy Parker
Hmph.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Watershed
It's funny how it changes.
How you can sit and stare at your convictions, hold them in your tired, cupped hands, only to watch them slip through your weakened fingers like water. And what amazes you even more, perhaps, is the complete absence of desire to try and capture them, to regain some sort of stronghold over what you thought mattered most.
Because somewhere, in the tiny, wet beads that remain, hopefully, lies something better. A little less certain, a road not quite as traveled, but with the promise of a pool at the end, an entire body of water, waiting, just for you.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Kids in the hall
He strolls down Robson, a yoga mat tucked neatly under a toned, tanned arm. Bluetooth firmly in place, a warm smile of recognition breaks across his face as he sees you sitting, folding up your copy of the Vancouver Sun at the plastic, umbrella-shaded table to make room. An airy kiss graces each of your cheeks, an order for a non-fat-something-or-other is placed. A sense of calm, of relief washes over.
He glances down at the frantic, red-penned circling you've done on the 'apartments for rent' page.
'We'll find you something babe, don't you worry one bit about it.'
The briefcase is opened; a blackberry is placed on the table.
He sees the smirk you tried, failed to hide.
'I know he says,' sheepish. 'I know.'
But he's a lawyer now, he's a grown-up now, and I guess you should be, too. And it's heavy lifting now, and it's no more playtime now and I guess you should follow suit.
He tells you of people, of places and things. And they all feel so far from the nights piled into his mom's minivan, from backyard parties with ice cream cakes and first kisses. It's property now, it's research grants now, it's car co-ops and broken hearts.
As you stroll through your goodbye, making plans, making promises, you remember to gently inquire. The girl, the sweet one, with the brown eyes and the light laugh. A silence casts over, and he turns to you, eyes questioning.
'I'm scared, Heath,' he says.
And you realize, that despite, or perhaps in spite of, courtrooms, Lacoste running shoes, flaxseed and composts, regardless of London jaunts and ski weekends, conference presentations and tailored-suits that he is still what he always was. That you both are, what you always were. Kids playing at being grown up. And not always doing a good job.
The hug lasts a little longer, and you feel it might be because you're trying to hold onto something that always feels so out of grasp. And so, you take the opportunity to whipser,
'You're alright. We're alright.'
He glances down at the frantic, red-penned circling you've done on the 'apartments for rent' page.
'We'll find you something babe, don't you worry one bit about it.'
The briefcase is opened; a blackberry is placed on the table.
He sees the smirk you tried, failed to hide.
'I know he says,' sheepish. 'I know.'
But he's a lawyer now, he's a grown-up now, and I guess you should be, too. And it's heavy lifting now, and it's no more playtime now and I guess you should follow suit.
He tells you of people, of places and things. And they all feel so far from the nights piled into his mom's minivan, from backyard parties with ice cream cakes and first kisses. It's property now, it's research grants now, it's car co-ops and broken hearts.
As you stroll through your goodbye, making plans, making promises, you remember to gently inquire. The girl, the sweet one, with the brown eyes and the light laugh. A silence casts over, and he turns to you, eyes questioning.
'I'm scared, Heath,' he says.
And you realize, that despite, or perhaps in spite of, courtrooms, Lacoste running shoes, flaxseed and composts, regardless of London jaunts and ski weekends, conference presentations and tailored-suits that he is still what he always was. That you both are, what you always were. Kids playing at being grown up. And not always doing a good job.
The hug lasts a little longer, and you feel it might be because you're trying to hold onto something that always feels so out of grasp. And so, you take the opportunity to whipser,
'You're alright. We're alright.'
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