“I’m from hard-boiled eggs” by Julia on M’s couch

Saturday, April 14, 2018
11:28pm
5 minutes
E 9th Street
Ricky Cantor

I’m from soft-boiled eggs on a sunday, little olive oil, salt and pepper
Dad knows his way around the simple pleasures in life
sneaks fresh figs across the border in September
stirs in the good grappa in his espresso instead of sugar
cares about if I know my times tables
I’m from fried eggs and anchovies in the summer time
visit the sanctuary in the back yard and do not move until the mosquitoes eat you
Dad picks cherry tomatoes from the garden and tosses them on our plates
he doesn’t sit with us on the porch while we eat
he is busy inside making the second course so he never has to say a word

“Who taught us to embrace life” by Julia at Kits Beach


Monday May 30, 2016
5:08pm
5 minutes
from a bench memorial plaque

There was a gleam in his eye as he let my brother put a cold grape into his hand. He was looking at me with a challenging look like he was about to do a trick and wanted to make sure he had my attention. I started to shake my head, smiling, telling him I knew he was up to something and I didn’t like whatever it was. He put the grape into his mouth and chewed it around for a second. Then when I looked away, he spat it out onto my leg. I looked up at his smug face and it broke my heart. Maybe that’s what the last visit between us was supposed to be like. Jokes and silliness. Him trying to make me laugh. Even at his least self, he managed to let me remember him exactly as he was when we was his most.

“create and manage an expense” by Sasha at 49th Parallel


Saturday October 3, 2015 at 49th Parallel
3:35pm
5 minutes
A financial website

When I get to your bachelor apartment on the fourth floor it will smell like cat pee and Axe Body Spray. The windows will be fogged. You’ll have just gotten out of the shower and your grey towel will be around your waist. I’ll ask if you’d like a coffee, I’ll offer to get you one from the shop a few blocks away. You’ll refuse twice. You’ll accept. I’ll suggest that we walk there together, that it might do you some good to get out. You will sniffle and pretend that you have a cold. I will know that you’re using again, but I won’t let on. I’ll remind you about Leila’s birthday party on Saturday before I tell you that Dad’s back in the hospital. You’ll be eating handfuls of Shredded Wheat from the box. You’ll act as though you didn’t hear me. You’ll tell me your rent is due and your account is in overdraft.

“at the door” by Sasha in Motel (at the Epcor Centre)


Thursday, July 11, 2013
7:43pm
5 minutes
Blue Moon Girls postcard

I stood there, at the front door, hand poised to knock. Before I could, my father was there, a tennis racquet in his hand. “Honey! I’m so glad you’re here!” He said, bringing me in for a hug. His beard tickled my cheek. “You’re early!” He was shouting a bit. “I’m just on my way out to meet Ned for tennis… Wanna come? You can be our ball-picker!” He looked a bit stressed. I said, no, I’d rather get caught up on some reading. I forgot I didn’t have any reading. I’d finished school three months ago. “There’s OJ in the fridge! Help yourself to a bagel!” He wore the same shorts that he had when I was eleven and would take him up on the offer to join him and Ned, his best friend and business partner. They were designers. They wore round glasses and relaxed-fit jeans. They talked about Lebanon and US politics.