In naps, I dreamed of shins—of shins tilting up hills, of uphill climbs, of an uphill that endured until it tipped into downhill. In mud, I thought of water. Crossing water, I thought of stones. During the grand rain, streams were called rivers, and rivers were called floods. The water rebelled past the lines the tree roots had drawn for it. It spread past the edges of bridges, and in one forest, a fallen tree seemed a safer crossing than the footbridge. More than many things, I feared slipping a foot into wetness. The river rocks that you must hop across could be covered in slick moss, or your backpack could topple you. And if your socks soak themselves, how will they ever dry in this rain? Walking with wet feet equals blisters, and you can’t stop walking yet.
I don’t feel love for my daughter Zoë right away. I feel a tightness in my stomach. She thrashes in the car seat, shrieks in the stroller, screams in the swing, and generally hates to sleep. I bounce her and pace for hours in a dark room. I leave her alone howling in her crib; in my own bedroom, I scream into a pillow so loudly that the back of my throat burns, and I pound on the wall so hard the paint cracks. Then I rush back and scoop her up, shattered with guilt at her terrified wails. I’m sure I am the worst mother, especially when it takes all of my remaining emotional strength to fight the urge to pin her against the mattress. Read more →
Your espion, your spy. Under cover of skin, darkness and duvet, it observes the moonlight streaming through the window of the root cellar, the ratty notebook and the thick pencil stained with olive oil, how you cope with the punishment by writing about the lone donkey baying outside. It measures the heat of the desert, the warmth of the sea, the depth of the snow, the thickness of the ice. It registers the bruises on your shoulders, the scars on your wrist, the tremor in your hand, the house on your back.
When I was seventeen some dude and his friends came running at me holding a small woven pouch that looked just like mine. “There’s $60 in there. And your pipe. And a bag of weed. And I think some hash or something. And it looks like half a dozen tabs of acid.” He shook his head. The isolated concert hall had been filled with smoke and flashing, strobing lights and terrible music for some time now. Dragged to my first rave, I had found a decent people-watching space with a friend as we waited for our ride to take us away from the brackish air and chill of the salt flats. The dude kept his arm outstretched, the pouch—my pouch—presented in his palm, ready for me to take back. He had a jester hat on and his friends were piled in bright colors and patterns and grinning faces. I took back my pouch and said thanks. Remembered that some minutes or hours earlier the jester had asked if I had a pipe to borrow and I’d handed over the pouch and shrugged. Read more →
Eating a baguette with hummus and chutney on my IKEA futon that is no longer in production, I think of my mom, dad, and sister, who are moving into a smaller house, still in the suburbs of Coquitlam. They’ve made several trips to IKEA and Winners in the past few weeks, sometimes unnecessarily. But I don’t make a fuss, because they’re happy. Things aren’t extremely difficult for what might be the first time in our lives. Read more →
I never would have met Charlie-the-girl if my high school guidance counselor had not lied to me. She, the guidance counselor I mean, not Charlie, was a burly woman with wide shoulders and almost comically oversized glasses. Her office was a windowless, cinder block-walled room in the basement of the school. Around the ceiling of the room were thirty-odd pendants from different colleges and universities, pointing down like a long row of technicolor shark teeth. Read more →