Wednesday August 16, 2017
When Saturday came, we loaded up the truck with all the butter lettuce, quarts of berries, cherry tomatoes. We didn’t speak much. Tuned the radio to something like Johnny Cash and wiped the sleep from our eyes and set into town. Gram would watch Milo and Greta. We learned early that if they came to market we couldn’t sell as fast. Greta cried when we said that she could only come if Gram wanted to
Tuesday January 31, 2017
‘It’s sunny today,
so that’s something’
Adam says, stroking his beard
as if he might be a wizard.
‘Yes. It is something,” I
respond, furrowing my eyebrows,
lifting my face
towards the sky.
Adam buys me an orange
from Florida and I wonder
about the politics of the
farmer, their tan lines,
their birth order.
Sitting by the ocean
at sunset, the buzz of
Granville Market behind
us, seagulls begging for
scraps of hotdogs from
children dressed in sweaters.
I long for a simpler time
when my heart didn’t live
in my throat.
Wednesday April 9, 2014
said by the streetcar conductor
In Essaouira, we met a Parisian man named Francois. I wish I could show you his picture. He looked French, he sounded French, everything about him felt French. He was a screenwriter, on a working vacation, trying to finish a script. He rolled his own cigarettes. We stayed in a small hotel, in a room with french doors on the second floor. Francois was on the ground floor, just around the corner from the dining room. He was desperately attracted to the friend I was travelling with, but he liked my spunky sense of humour. I could tell. In that French way, he quietly respected each of us, her, with her otherworldly beauty, and me, with my wide smile and my jokes. When he ran out of tobacco, he asked if we wanted to accompany him on a walk into the main square. We did. In the blur of steamed trolleys and donkeys and brightly coloured carpets, the three of us help hands like pre-schoolers, and laughed as women clucked and men gave Francois high-fives.
Friday March 14, 2014
Nelu’s Birthday Card
Once, you drew a few lines and had your mother title it because you didn’t know how to write words yet, you hadn’t yet discovered that words are the same shapes you were already making, but put together like a puzzle, and you called those few lines “birth”. Your mother tried not to laugh because she didn’t want to shame you, she wanted to only love you, she didn’t feed your sugary cereal or ice cream and only let you have pie on special occasions, she put you to bed at seven thirty and made your older brother speak in a whisper until it was his bedtime. Bless you mother and the overflowing bounty of her market basket, market on Saturday mornings, coming home with nasturtium flowers and purple kale and fresh rye bread and coffee that was only for the adults, only for her and Jermaine. Once, you drew a flower and had your mother title it and you told her to call it “death”.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
You’ve been walking through the flea market since two thirty and you’re getting cranky. Sam just texted and said that he’s got the flu and won’t be able to make it to your gig tonight. You haven’t responded yet. You don’t want to be mean. But you want him to know you’re sad. You grab a pink bobble necklace from a whole basket of them. The man with the curly moustache says, “Seven dollars!” You throw it back and give him your best, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” look. You continue on, really looking for a sandwich or or hot dog or a chocolate chip cookie. One of the big ones. One of the ones that’s the size of your head. A pendant catches your eye, pinned to a blue velvet board, in a gold frame. It’s a small yellow horseshoe. It reminds you of the morning. “How much?” You ask. The woman with dreadlocks and a pierced eyebrow says, looking at your flushed cheeks, “Ten?”
Sunday May 5, 2013 at Apollo Studios
from the Voice Over Survivor script book
Oh let there be a shining sign,
A heart to hold, a hand on mine, for days to come, and down the line,
Oh let there be a shining sign.
Amelia stood in her kitchen fixing
tomato salad and nondescript beans. She swayed back and forth with an easiness about her she hadn’t recognized since her youth. Shawna would be home soon from the market with her fresh basil and Amelia had plans to ask her about the people there. Amelia hadn’t left her house in just shy of a month. Losing the baby was hard for her, as it would be, but she made a promise to Shawna and Valerie that she’d still be around if the two of them needed her. She was trying to hide the sadness when they came over, especially together. Valerie was too young to understand what was happening to her sister and Shawna was the type who just didn’t care much about anything that didn’t involve her.
Saturday February 2, 2013
I didn’t think that I had any more tears. At a certain point you go, “Okay, there cannot possibly be more tears left in there!” And then, lo and behold, more just end up coming. It’s a curse. These tears. Edward was completely at a loss what to do with me anymore. He wouldn’t even say anything. He would look at me, see that I was crying again, and, most usually, yawn or readjust himself. I went to the market alone this morning. Usually we go together. This morning Edward said that he wanted to sleep in. It’s February, I mean it’s hardly time for choirs… Not like December or April are! I have no idea why they were performing but this… this children’s chorus was singing in the stairway on the South side. My breath caught in my throat. Oh goodness, no! I thought. Yes. The tears came, and the hiccups, and one of the little boy’s, he looked like the blonde version of Ned, he really did, he smiled. He must have a mother like me.