“O Dio, vorrei morir” by Julia at her desk

Saturday May 25, 2019
7:02pm
5 minutes
Gianni Schicchi
Giacomo Puccini

I have asked you before but you ignored it.
So I’m not asking anymore, I’m telling you.
I would like to die.
If I cannot see my son, because my son is
never coming back, then what is there left
to live? I mean, there is nothing for me if
he is not here. I am not asking anymore.

I see him sometimes as the butterfly
that has been visiting me every day since
he was taken from me. Does a butterfly
who is not carrying the spirit of a loved one
land on your shoulder, or the kiss of your knuckle?
No, I am not asking, I already know. It’s him.

I am telling you, God, I have nothing to
offer, contribute. I am no longer holding
all the pieces together, it’s too painful.
The grief pushes out all the cracks and
makes me want to sink into the floor.
I am not asking.

This gash is open for war and I welcome
the blade. Twist it. Twist it all the way.

“with special guests” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Wednesday, July 1, 2015
6:43pm
5 minutes
From a Baroque to Birdland flyer

“We’ll meet you there,” Andre says, “in the lobby,” and I believe him. I have no reason not do. Or… Do I?

We park and walk into the theatre. The lights start to flash and Marj says it’s time to go in. “But they aren’t here yet,” I say, and we have their tickets. “Well that was a stupid plan. They are always late!” Marj goes and gets a seat, “How are we going to know what’s happening if we miss the prologue!” she says. “It’s in Italian! We aren’t going to understand it anyway!” I wait. I order an Old Fashioned.

At Intermission, I start to worry. Marj takes forever in the bathroom (“Godddamn lines! Goddamn women!”) “I’m worried, hon,” I say and she touches my face and says something must’ve come up. “He’s not a surgeon, hon!” Marj goes in for the second act and I take a seat right near the door.

We’re in bed and the phone rings.

“The scent of perfume” by Julia at R Squared


Monday, December 3, 2012 at R Squared Espresso Bar
9:50am
5 minutes
The contained scent of perfume

Hillie and I are going to the opera tonight. She’s bringing me there as a birthday present. Hillie loves the opera. I, on the other hand, do not. Hillie bakes me zucchini bread every year because she’s convinced it’s my favourite. I try to tell her gently that I’m off sweets but Hillie is stubborn and crass at times. She tends to make spectacles and I’m not really interested in that kind of thing. I was told earlier to wear my best suit and I told her I only had one anyway. She laughed the way a muffin would laugh if it could. She said I was silly. It’s 6:06pm and Hillie is never late. She made sure I was ready by 5:59 just in case. I think about calling her to make sure she’s okay. I don’t. I enjoy the silence of the cool knowing that I’m ready before Hillie and that maybe the opera will be an afterthought instead of the only thought.
I look down at the silver watch Hillie bought me for Christmas last year and I look again to make sure. The opera begins at 7:00. It is now 6:48. How did the time pass: me in my silence?