My little rowboat is filling up fast

Apparently, you don't get to choose much in this world. Not even when, where and how to grieve. All I get to choose is how I remember the moment. And what I do with it.

(This is the exact moment, at 8:26 pm on Sunday, October 15, when I receive the call)

I'm writing about the movie Adaptation. What it feels like to be back in that place where the line between lovely fairytale and crushing reality starts to blur. Those original late night thoughts continue to curl around me like incense smoke. Smoke that I trace in the shape of an eight. The shape of infinity. Ouroboros. The snake eating its own tail. But how can I go on writing about this right now? How can I go on trying to describe the actual feeling of having the delicate cover that normally separates stone-cold reality from madness, fact from fiction, slowly peel away during a movie? How can I go on trying to figure out why I keep dreaming about her? Her, but not her. Her, crying when I'd expect her to be laughing. Who (or what) was she crying for? Her impending loss, or mine?

(You see, right now it’s 10:04 pm. No less than 98 minutes have passed...)

I just got back from one of the worst drives of my life. Maybe my worst moment since I walked into this same house, at roughy the same time, on January 30 of this year. The worst phone call since Tigger, who also died on a lonely Sunday night, on the Summer Solstice of 2011. The same day (six years later, though still the longest of the year) that you ran away and came home, Leon. The 115 days between that day and today seem painfully compressed. Too few days in between. Too soon to have just walked into the altar room to lay your frayed and ragged collar - with its standard-issue yellow SPCA chip tag next to your custom-engraved blue bone - on top of your picture frame, lit one of those pregnant Sri Sai Flora sticks and traced infinity over you as well. Too soon to have joined the rest of the dead. Four out of nine, not counting the two I've lost track of. My little rowboat is filling up fast.

So why am I not breaking down? Why wasn’t I bawling when I first got the call, at 8:24 pm, from the strange woman and her non-descript 438 area code number, asking me if Leon was my cat. Of course he's my cat. Why else would you be calling? I must have answered so nonchalantly, having fielded enough of these phone calls on your behalf to no longer make such a big deal out of them. (Remember when I had to come pick you up that one Friday night at that stranger's house, then carry you back to my car like lost luggage? Of course you don't.) 

She must have been taken aback as well, wondering how she was going to break the news that you were gone. Is that what she actually said? I think so. “Leon is gone.” I repeated the word gone and added a question mark at the end. What do you mean, gone? More questions. Are you his owner? Is Leon a big, beautiful grey cat? I asked her why she was asking. Of course he was my mine, big and beautiful - all those things. Although to be fair, I thought to myself, he's more cream than grey, a very uniquely striped specimen indeed, with deep blue bulging eyes that often scan their surroundings with blurry humming-bird speed. He has a meow that's too tiny for him. And when you grab him and bring him right close to your face, not only could you feel the massive weight of him (not that he was fat, maybe a little when he came from the SPCA, before we put him on Chillum's diet food) but you could actually feel the human-like sigh he let out - half elated, half accepting. More questions. Do you live close by? Is this some kind of a joke? Then the messenger started to get emotional. She repeated that Leon was gone. That Leon was dead. That she had his collar and that’s why we were talking on the phone. “What do you mean dead?” I demanded, my voice sounding thin and somehow detached, like it was suddenly too small for my throat. Like one of us had the wrong number. I can’t stand to be the one to have to tell you this. Tell me what? I asked her where she was. She asked me if I was far. The first fuck slipped out. Tell me what you mean by dead and gone? She told me she had found him in the street while she was walking her dog. That she lived in the neighbourhood. That she had pushed him over to the sidewalk because nobody else had. That she would wait for me to come by. When would I be coming by? Fuck. I exhaled loudly. I started pacing. Fuck. I mumbled something about leaving now. I told her I'd call her once I got there. I didn’t thank her for calling. Didn’t thank her for letting me know. Didn’t ask her for any more explanations. Not if he was still breathing. Not if he was wet. Or cold. Or stiff. Or crushed. Not even if she was a hundred per cent sure it was my Leon. Our Leon. Leone di Cairano. When I hung up the phone, she was still talking.

It bothered me that I wasn’t crying yet. It bothered me that my voice wasn’t even shaking as I shared the news with my brother, making it a little more real. All I could think about was grabbing a black garbage bag (Costco) and making sure my doors and windows were closed so none of my other cats could go out. I only thought about driving there, and whether there was any chance I might actually throw up on the way, or maybe when I’d finally see him. My head continued to swim in a lingering Sunday hangover. I thought about the strange and unsolicited warning a young author from Chicago had given me over email, telling me to stay safe this weekend, even though I had never given her the impression that my life was ever in any kind of danger. I put on my black Burton hoodie, even though it was still unseasonably muggy out, something the afternoon's near torrential rainfall had done little to alleviate. I thought about how soaked Leon would be, and whether or not that would be a good thing. I wondered if he’d be flat like a pancake. If his body would be twisted. Or if he’d just look like he was taking a long nap, the way he often did when I’d find him sprawled out on the pink futon, his paws and two large canines exposed, not a care in the world. I drove out. I noticed my left leg was shaking uncontrollably. No tears. But at least it was something. 

The streets were empty. The air coming through the vents was ice cold. It reminded me of the weather the day my marriage fell apart, strangled by the clammy hands of too many secrets. I didn’t play any music on the way. No Kendrick. No Radiohead. Nothing to set the mood. Just the sad silence of a Sunday evening drizzle against my windshield wipers. And my dull thoughts. The growl in my stomach. I visualized, bracing myself for the worst. I also entertained the minute possibility this could all be some kind of giant misunderstanding. I didn’t entertain that thought for very long. More than anything, I thought about what was going to become of one of my story’s main characters. The unexpected symbol of my salvation. My hope. My beacon of light through the darkness. Was he really gone? And if he was, what was I going to do with his body? His memory, I could cherish. His soul, I could immortalize. But what about his physical body? That’s what I thought about most of all. Where would I bury him? Would the hole be deep enough? Was there any chance we could cremate him in this rain? How long might it all take? 

I witnessed two near-accidents on the way. This is how cats die on the road. Except nobody gets out to check if the cat's okay once they feel that sickening thud. It’s almost always a hit and run. No-fault insurance. Injured cats are discovered, comforted and reported by fellow animal lovers. People who feel the pain of those whose numbers they dial, putting themselves in the terrible position of having to break the news to somebody that could have been them on any other day. I've been on both ends of the line. It sucks either way.

When I turned left onto 8th Avenue, I braced myself - like I do any time I see a garbage bag or strange object in the middle of the street. I stopped the car right in front of Cantors but didn’t see anything. Figured I might as well park at the Mothership. My brother got there at the exact same moment. He got out without saying much. We started to walk back toward Cantors. That’s when I started crying. There were very few people on this planet whose presence alone could make me sob - my brother was one of them. It was like muscle memory for me. I made sure to walk a little in front of him just to avoid breaking down completely. Still no sign of Leon. At least it wasn’t raining hard anymore. We didn’t say a word. Still nothing. I decided to call the lady. She answered the phone and asked if I was Leon, then realized what she was saying and asked us where we were. She seemed more distraught than I was. Maybe she was thinking about the tables being turned? Maybe she was quietly hugging her dog and counting her lucky stars, the way other people’s tragedy always seem to make you do. ‘Not me, life. Not today!’ She mentioned being closer to Denis Papin. Could I see her? Not yet, but I turned around and started walking back that way. 

I guess my brother hadn’t heard me tell him she was the opposite way, because he was still searching behind the cars in the parking lot, tenderly. My brother had texted me that morning, reporting that Leon wasn't around. But then the sly fucker had managed to train us not to worry about him. Was his bowl empty? Yup. Okay, all good then. Probably went out roaming again. He'll be back... 

Daddy was calling. I ignored his calls. Once. Twice. I answered the third time, slightly annoyed, dished out the news in ten seconds flat and quickly hung up. Just like I had done with my mom, who called me as I was I getting into my car, asking me what happened. Like I knew. We walked past the neighbours and saw a woman emerge from behind a large truck, possibly next to that little metal shop I had visited the first time Leon had gone missing. That first day of Summer. The woman was short and stout. Her poodle stood beside her. She reattached his leash and asked if we were the guys. I nodded, tearing up. Follow me, her nervous body seemed to say, as she pointed awkwardly to the other side of the street. We crossed over to the front of a building we had thought of buying not too long ago. She said something about how we must have loved him, given his fancy collar. But her voice stopped mattering when I finally spotted him. 

Leon was sprawled out on the sidewalk, soaking wet. His face was frozen in a hideous wince. Resting on his left side, nearly all his right teeth were bared and exposed. His eyes were open, but I could no longer make out the blue in them. His left paw seemed to hang at a weird angle under his head. Like he was having the worst kind of sleep, stuck in a perpetual nightmare. It confirmed that he had died a painful death. That this world was indeed heartless and cruel. That you test your own shitty luck as much as you make it. That much I could make out from the half lit resting patch of sidewalk he had occupied for God knows how long. Too long. My eyes went blurry, the way they are going blurry now. It became hard to focus. The refraction of the light through tears and scratched lenses was probably a blessing in disguise, shielding me from any more detail. Making it less real. The beautiful ivory fur that had covered his broad, Doberman's chest (a chest that never slimmed down, even when he did) was now a dull, street rat grey. He looked emaciated, the way cats do when you give them a bath. Except he didn’t look clean at all. His tail was all scraggly. “It’s not him, Rob. It's not him” my brother said matter-of-factly. He was right. But maybe he was also trying to reassure me so that I wouldn’t lose it, the way I had when I held Angel on the sterile metal table, while the vet gently plunged liquid death into her. That day, I had cried out as her eyes went glassy and her breath stopped. But there was no moment of release now. Tears pooled on my glasses and streamed down my nose. The lump in my throat just sat there. Nothing more. All I could think about was getting him into the garbage bag. I didn’t even notice the woman leave, although she did apologize again before doing so. I removed his collar. We both cupped his rigid body as gently as we could, my brother by his haunches, me by his head. There was no bend left in him. His beautiful coat was no more. We struggled to fit the mouth of the industrial-sized garbage bag around him. But we managed.

We walked back to the Mothership. The garbage was already out, and every last one of those bags looked hideous and suspect to me now. My brain cried for a quick solution. I looked up at the sky, shook my head and sighed. It felt abut right. My brother double-bagged him, then asked me what I wanted to do. I mentioned burying him, knowing I’d have time to justify the larger symbolism of it if I could just get through this moment. Right now? But he knew better than to ask twice. I picked up the bag. Leon (Leone di Cairano, as my grandmother had unknowingly baptized him during one particularly entertaining rendition of the great family story) had always weighed a lot in my arms. Maybe it was the thing I liked most about him, even more than his gentleness. All those times that I'd find him loitering back there in the yard, waiting patiently after another night out, I'd call him toward me. He’d locate my voice, give in and approach me with his wobbly strut and his tiny whimper - too tiny for his stature - and quietly allow me to pick him up and carry him inside, only really starting to protest as we got toward the front door. Once inside, he’d follow me up the stairs, wait for me to punch in the code and hop in as soon as the door had cleared. He'd still have to clear Chillum, of course. But he always managed. Within twenty minutes, he’d be back out - like Dino in the Flintstones. Too smart for his own good.

But he was somehow even heavier now. Dead weight. I held the bag and let the weight of him sink in. My brother opened the fence and I carried him into his old stomping ground, Leon nothing more than a stiff form in a gleaming black garbage bag, hoping nobody would be around for this. Max was there. I went straight for the shovel. Max followed me out and insisted he do it because I was close to him. I told him it was fine. That I was fine. That this was life. That I needed to do this. That I wanted to do this. I wanted nothing more than to do this, smoke a cigarette and go home. And write, of course. And watch as the snake continued to eat its own tail. 

We found a soft empty space under the vines. I plunged the shovel into the moist, loose earth and dug a hole in no time at all. I made sure it was big enough and deep enough to comfortably house him, without struggle. My brother insisted it was, then I dug a little more just to be sure. I was trying to open the bag. He insisted on placing the entire thing inside and then tearing it open. And there was Leon, again, filling up his final resting spot. The great Leone di Cairano, looking like one little rat only. Mowed down at three, well before his prime. I asked my brother to turn his body so his back was against the concrete wall. It didn’t seem right any other way. I wondered how long he’d take to disappear completely. I told him not to cover him just yet. I wanted to touch him one last time. I pet him and scratched under his chin in the dark, imaging him closing his eyes and flashing those canines in his genetically rehearsed response. I started to cry again and my brother left, taking the light with him. I didn't even say the word goodbye. I guess I had gotten my fill of those. I did not want to let this one linger. I patted down the earth around him. I smoked half a cigarette, thought about taking a walk back to the scene of the accident, then decided against it. 

Even now, I am weary of giving this death any more meaning. It only makes it more painful. But you are so much more than four out of nine, Leon. You are yet another beautiful link between two worlds. A gentle traveler I was lucky enough to cross on the road to infinity. 

forget the cat. there was never even a bag for it to jump out of.

I'm not sure how I want to remember today, if at all

There was a perfect five minutes during a Scopa game with my Nonna where she was really cleaning house. At one point, I just shot her a glance and asked her if she was done. She laughed and picked up another card and then patted me on the shoulder as she corrected my Italian, repeating the line to herself before laughing some more. She'd end up winning the game. And unlike my grandfather, I'd never belittle her for doing so. I'd never take anything as a game of cards so seriously.

I should have stayed there and played another round to twenty one. She'd ask me how much we were betting and then forget my ridiculous answer just as quickly.

This way there would have been no stress injected into the rest of my night. No need to argue over a hockey game that no one could really watch anyway. No need to beat our heads on the same issues. To explain where there was no explanation. To compete where there is no competition.

We should only ever have to struggle with ourselves and never with others. Tonight I learned, again, why that is.

Yes, I am still incomplete and unfulfilled and maybe it is in my nature to always feel this way. I'm idealistic and unrealistic. I'm a dreamer - always was and always will be. I don't need to be examined, cross-referenced or boiled down. You get it or you don't.

The more I surround myself with people who do, the less I want to be around those that don't.

gardens to nowhere

we were tilling the earth in a giant shipping container - my brother, my father and I. it all felt very hopeless. that earth was snow white in colour and i knew nothing would ever grow there. the wilted plant we were transplanting - its trunk smooth and without roots - would only keep falling over. and to make matters worse, I was late for a hockey game and then a party. it was crazy that I had to be doing this now, I muttered under my own breath, still loud enough for everyone to hear. my brother agreed, for once. how many more times would we have to humour the man? I sat there, enlightened and impatient, waiting for any sign that I could go. at some point, I just went. and nobody said a word.

Shoot the messenger

     Uncle Dom spoke about the old days. The early days. The days when there was still some back-and forth in that happy little apartment on Vianney. Some banter. Some respect. And what felt like love.
     My brother was eager to hear all about it. Of course he was. I guess I was too. We weren't really around for what sounded like the golden years. We didn't get to see those happy times and we almost never heard about them either. Those exciting times when simply ironing the clothes was a conversation starter. When friends would come over. When they would all sit around and pose for pictures. Those days felt too far away. Too buried in the past.
     There's no time for the past now. Not when you're dealing with the present and fretting about the future. These days there aren't too many happy things to report on the family front. These days even congratulations and thank you's ring hollow. They're short-lived and they don't mean much. And they'll never mean much. My parents were born alone and now they'll die alone. And they'll both have to deal with that fact someday. In the not-too-distant future. Alone, of course. I guess I'll have to deal with it as well. I got dragged into a lose-lose situation and I somehow managed to come out numb. I'm not happy and I'm not sad. Yesterday I was neither. We were all neither. Just having a coffee and over-analyzing. Trying to put ourselves in shoes we'll never understand. Trying my best to ignore that phone call. The one I've been answering ever since I got back home.
     I spent the better part of last night waking up to the same thoughts in my head. The dreams of the waves from the night before replaced by one sickening thought. That there's no such thing as closure. That bruises never heal properly as you get older.
     I kept that phone call to myself. I keep a lot of shit to myself these days.
     No more. I have swallowed your frustrations and spit them right back at each of you for the last time. I am done cross-examining your emotions. I am done explaining. Pleading. Translating my thoughts into your separate languages. Smoothing things over. Taking punches. Doing your dirty work. Being accused of taking sides. I am not interested in becoming that thing you despise in the other.
     Mommy. Daddy. It's time you fight your own demons. 

the nod

     We reached a deal but there were no handshakes. No champagne and no congratulations. There would be no smiles to this settlement.
     At least it was a less stressful meeting. Last Saturday I had been so nervous I had barely eaten anything all day. I blamed whatever anxiety I had been feeling up until that moment to that particular meeting. The one that was apparently doomed to fail before it ever got started. The culmination of all the nasty phone calls. All the brutal honesty and all the bullshit. And all the things no son should ever have to hear. But that was last week. This time my mother and I sat down for some liver with fried onions. We even managed to slip in some leftover cold Espresso before she looked at me and wondered aloud if we should get this show on the road. I nodded and went to go get my father downstairs. I walked back upstairs on my own. Just to show how impartial I was. We all sat there in awkward silence. I felt bad. But only because I hadn't offered to make him a coffee as well. There were some last-ditch questions about the house evaluation. Some last-minute explanations that would be repeated and only partially understood. Some last-minute bad blood. But it didn't change much in the end.
     Column A, B and C awaited patiently.
     When there was nothing left to say my father asked his soon-to-be ex-wife if she was okay with everything. And then she looked at me and said that she was okay with it if I was okay with it. She trusted me like that. On any other day it would have made me uncomfortable. But I wanted out. We all wanted out. So I agreed and she agreed. My father rose from the table and sank silently down the stairs and into the basement, his days suddenly numbered. I kept the reality of it at bay.
     I looked at my mother then, nodded and fought back some tears. The nod said that she had done the right thing. The nod understood that she had done this for us, her two sons.
     But the nod also acknowledged my role in this entire thing. I had just rubber-stamped my parent's divorce. Had given it my cold and indifferent blessing. But that wasn't all. Because I had stirred the pot. Maybe I had even inspired my mother to action. Most probably. And now we were all entering unchartered territory. Together. Alone.
      

a little more lightweight

     Today on the drive back from Subaru I didn't take that side street off the service road. The one I had taken just the other night. The one with the tiny magical church at the end of it. With the front-lit Jesus statue (or is it Mary? Jesus) just standing there, inviting and creepy. The most unassuming Heaven's Door you could ever imagine. Just sitting there. Before that final right back onto Saint-Laurent.
     Turns out it wouldn't have been the right way anyway. A large tree had cracked in half just above the trunk and crashed right into the cab of a parked truck. The truck was not spared and the street was completely blocked by a damn of thick branches. My brain registered the shape of the disaster out the corner of my eye but it took me a solid twenty five seconds and one reluctant u-turn to realize this was not the kind of thing you see everyday. So I photographed and reported back. Even though I had vaguely heard about the power outages on the way back. Even if I vaguely heard the wind howling all day. The nondescript knocking around of plastic garbage bin on asphalt as I played phone in for a bargain! with at  least three different dealers, just to see who would throw in something (anything) more than just the winter carpets that would compliment the shiny hunk of metal awaiting me at the end of the exercise. And this was a good day to be investing in metal. An auspicious day to buy a car - the start of Diwali and all.
     But today was something else. Today was so many things for so many different reasons.
     A missed birthday with no phone call. Some last-minute goodbye wishes. A day to reach out. To rebuild. To nurture. Not from the ground up. Never again from the ground up.
     Everything I set out to do today I did. The car. The hot water tanks. The re-connect and the background check. Whatever had been lingering around since I got back, really. Whatever I couldn't get away with blaming on jet lag any longer. The afterglow had dimmed a little. I had been beaten back down into reality. As if. As if I had expected anything less from life. Everything except the evil eye. And maybe the old tightening of the chest, first thing in the morning. So I had to let a little more of that weight go today. For myself and my well being. More promises followed. Tomorrow I would even start to run. And when the wind finally started to die down a little we watched the Muppets. Because it was still in the DVR. And we were all so much older than we might have been our first time watching. But there was still so much magic in those puppets. And everything seemed to come alive when I saw all those smiling faces go up on my wall. Those rows and rows of beautiful and colourful smiles. You would find no inner struggle in any of those rows of smiles. There would only always be life.
   

first world problems

(a complaint letter I sent to Bell Canada just now...)

In mid April, before leaving for India for six months, I made some changes to all of my services with Bell. I do this every once in a while to keep my costs down. And also to remind you guys that I've been a paying customer for more than seven years.

- On April 10th, I got a reduction on some new promotion for my landline and internet services, confirmation number number 26821282. It doesn't seem like those changes have been enacted yet. That was more than two months ago. Please fix this and credit my account.

- On April 27th, I canceled the RAI/Telelatino package which was $10/month. I'm still being charged for the Telelatino portion, which is ridiculous because I ordered them together (I HAD NO CHOICE!) and wanted to get rid of them together. Check my records and you'll see that I never had one without the other. The eChat guy or girl was not helpful at all and then disconnected the line when I asked to speak to a superior. I want the charges for April and May reversed. You guys sell this package together and when it comes to removing it, suddenly you have to do it separately. How convenient. Please credit my account the $14 I paid for no reason.

- And finally, just before April 24th, I temporarily suspended my phone for six months and was told I'd only be charged $15/month to keep my number. That eChat rep for Mobility told me everything looked fine from Bell Mobility's side and there was nothing more he could. But my OneBill shows that I'm being charged the same amount as if my phone is still active, This is what is being charged to my credit card, by the way. There is obviously something wrong with the OneBill system and so I'm being charged for services that are no longer active. Please fix this and credit my account.

I'm so frustrated with Bell right now. Your company is too large. You have too many departments and none that overseas them all. Almost no one that answers the phone or chats with you online can never actually do anything to solve your problems; and they can never seem to put you in touch with a superior who can. Every time I make changes to my account there is always some screw up and it always involves you guys charging me more or the same for things I am not using or never asked for. Now I'm in India and I can't waste time and money calling the retention department - the only department that seems to have truly qualified customer service people working. Only when your business is threatened do you suddenly become capable of problem solving.

PLEASE SETTLE ALL THESE ISSUES AND CREDIT MY ACCOUNT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

This will have to be done by email. There is no way I'm spending another second of my time or money dealing with customer service. Please provide me a detailed account of what went wrong with all these issues and explain why any charges that I am asking to be reversed are not reversed.

I am keeping a copy of this message. If I do not get an adequate response the next person who will get this message will be a consumer agency group. Thank you.

Rob

I did. So what's the point?

I walked into the courtroom three minutes late and saw him sitting there on the right. I had to catch my breath. I was already nervous on the way. Woke up nervous. It was the first time I'd seen him since he tried to kill me, two hands to the neck style. And the first thing I noticed (again) was just how big he was. Ogrish, actually. Like Michael Meyers without the mask. Like just his skin itself was enough. I thought it looked even more cratered, pasty than before. The blue collar protruding from a dark polo. The matted greasy hair and those heavy black shoes. A big man. Still makes me wonder how I managed to break free of him that day, not once but twice. Or three times, maybe. I could hardly look at him now. I left the courtroom and pressed my back against the cool window. And waited for my prosecutor. For direction. He walked out into the marble corridor and sat there like he was waiting for the subway, hunched over his Blackberry and sometimes smiling under his breath. Talking to his wife, nodding at his lawyer. I was having a hard time focusing on what I was going to say and how I was going to say it. I saw the cop who had filled out the report that day and referred to him as a wounded puppy after the fact. I saw the prosecutor and his lawyer walk into one of those small rooms with the frosted windows.

And when the deal was presented to me, I was relieved. And why not, when the option of prolonged trial and sentencing would likely only lead to the the same outcome conclusion. Especially when the judge would hear what an otherwise upstanding citizen he was. Church goer, business owner with Air Canada contracts to boot and sufferer of depression. At least this way I would be issued an apology in court, in front of the judge. And get the choice of the charity. I chose a victim's charity. I explained to my lawyer that I just wanted the court (the world) to know his real intention that crazy day was to shut me up for good - nothing less. But how could I get that recognition? He didn't seem to have an answer. So I decided to take his advice and settled.

I'm settling. There's no other way to say it.

I've been staring at him, sitting much farther down the hallway now. Far enough that we can't even make out the direction or intention of each others' eyes. I swear I made out a little smirk on his ugly face, maybe caught his wife shaking her head in some form of disapproval I hope I will never understand. But I keep on staring. This is my closure. That and the $350 donation, of course - above and beyond even the wildest of my prosecutor's wildest ambitions. I thought it was a touch cheap but who am I to say?

I'm sitting in the courtroom taking in mindless conversation about the Gaspé. I feel more calm and at peace now. I watch a couple of drunk drivers, one shoplifter and a couple of women gladly plead guilty in accordance with their own out-of-court settlements. (My prosecutor seems to be an expert at avoiding the courtroom altogether) Finally he's back and we're up. Frank makes his way before the judge with his back toward me. I can see him wringing those large hands again, closer now. His lawyer explains the history. The details have all been smudged: Parties had a disagreement related to said business, there was an event that followed and now my client would like to issue an apology. It all rang so hollow. He turned to me and said: "Robert, I've had a lot of time to think about what happened that day and I'm truly sorry. I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me. And we move on."

There was no emotion in that statement. It came out awkward and left me feeling slightly uncomfortable, then cheated. It was that kind of canned apology a kid will make when forced by his mother. I didn't respond and found it difficult to look him straight in the face.

I just sat there, not really feeling like a winner or a loser.

the cloud with no silver lining.

I've been thinking about my grandmother a lot lately. Ever since she came over for Thanksgiving and just kind of sat there on the edge of the couch, not quite that far from us but still watching from a distance behind her glasses. There's been a distance growing for some time now. I feel it's a confused sort of distance, like maybe she's no longer exactly sure what is going on with each of us at every moment and plays it safe by smiling and listening more than she speaks. I still catch her speaking to Amy in Italian, which is always a good sign. She's better one on one. And she always seems to know where I'm at in my life, even if she repeatedly asks me if I have two cats or just one. I understand why she might be confused but I'm not even sure she remembers that one of them died and was only later replaced. I always smile and answer the question, like nothing was. But maybe something is. Maybe the Alzheimer's is finally starting to catch up with her - and in more ways than just her forgetfulness. Maybe she's also starting to get a little paranoid. And maybe she's starting to feel like she's becoming a weight that few of us are truly willing to shoulder, my Mom excluded. And maybe she's partially right.

All I know is that I always visit every Sunday with the intention of trying my best to be as close to her as I can. But it's getting harder and harder to do. I'll rub her shoulders and then she'll tell me she's in the clouds and I'll believe her.

I understand. But we both live on very different clouds.

sink in the breeze

I feel like I can think more clearly now that the choking humidity is gone. 

I swear, it felt like my brain was slowly filling up with water the last few days and was ready to either burst or drown under the extreme pressure. 

Now that the breeze has come back all I want to do is run. Maybe I don't want to as much as I need to. 

Only problem is there aren't enough miles in my legs to completely clear my head. 

Maybe one day there will be. 

A work in progress.

the day the longest sun went dark

I'm not really sure how to commemorate this anniversary in words.

Tigger died on this day one year ago. Technically, he died the night before, when he tried to cross Clark Street for probably the first time in his life. We're still not sure what he was doing there in the first place. It was not like him to stray far from the alley. From us, really. But that Sunday night, he did. And he never came home. And I think both Amy and I already knew why, deep down in the pit of our hearts. We went out looking for him just the same. I even woke up super early the next morning and walked the empty alleys and streets, calling his name and shaking his food. I went to work telling her it would be fine. She got the call early in the afternoon. I got her frantic call right after. I didn't really cry on the drive home. Not until I got home and saw her. And then I couldn't stop. We couldn't stop. I begged her not to come to pick him up from the stranger who had been kind enough to pick him up off the side of the road. He would be the only person who actually saw it happen. But he was short on details. All he said was it happened quickly. There was no unnecessary suffering. Except that our beautiful cat died alone, scared and inconsolable. Just that thought is enough to still rip my heart in two.

It really only hit me when I looked in the box and felt how stiff he was. We cried right there on the side walk. We cried at the vet. We cried the next week, in each other's arms and by ourselves. And when there were no more tears to shed, the real grief began. Those weeks and months became the ugly climax to one of the worst periods in my life. And judging from these tears, the wound is still fresh when poked and prodded.

I try to think about him everyday. But I still can't look at pictures too long or the leopard-print collar that's still sitting in the plastic bottle by the window - the one he loved to drink from early in the morning, by Amy's night table. His death has left me chronically paranoid about Pepe and Fiona. I will never think about the first official day of summer the same way ever again. But my mind is designed to forget - possibly for my own sanity. And so specific memories are starting to fade. Over time, I will probably forget all the tiny little moments, fights and annoyances that make having a pet so inexplicably consuming. 


If there's any one positive in all this, it's that I no longer have the luxury to take anything for granted. I remain keenly aware that all our days are numbered. 


At least I'll never forget that, Tiggy.

action, reaction

There is nothing more frustrating than watching someone you love struggle with themselves - especially when you fully realize you are powerless to stop it.

Some people can just watch and listen. Like passive observers. Be supportive, constructive. Say everything is going to be okay. Point to brighter days ahead. Not everyone has an uncontrollable urge to give their opinion and point out missteps in a bid to help out. Some people are able to remain neutral and transparent. Some people are able to put themselves aside and swallow their tongues. Some people can just fight heartache with more love and learn to lead by example

I am not one of those people. I am not a big enough person.

whistling past the graveyard

i'm trying to think up a clever line to sum up this expression but nothing's coming to mind. i wish my laptop's fan would shut the fuck up so i could just concentrate on the clocks. my mind is all over the place tonight. i don't know if i want to write about just how equally difficult it is to unfriend "friends" on Facebook or how my heart just sank when i saw that white flash of a cat only narrowly avoid getting run over on Clark, of all streets. both would seem to apply to the title in question. making the best of a bad situation. i guess. i just had more of an image of someone trying to coax the dead out of their graves. tempting fate, almost. like Jesus did to Lazarus in the Last Temptation of Christ; not because he had to, necessarily, but more just to prove to everyone that he could.

whether he was better off left for dead was never really the issue.

anything to declare? yes, just my undying disgust

You really have to dig deep to find even a milligram of love for the US when you are passing through any of their borders.

It was almost five years ago that we took the same connecting flight through Miami via Costa Rica to get home. Back then, the wonderful folks at Customs and Immigration hadn't discovered the potential inconvenience of putting passengers in transit in the same, impossibly slow lines as those actually stepping foot into the country. We missed the flight and had to spend a night in Miami - and actually fight with American Airlines agents to pay for the hotel room. And no one ever even apologized once for the inconvenience.

Nothing has changed. And so once again, we were forced watch visitors get photographed, fingerprinted and mercilessly interrogated with little regard for those of us who still had to gather and re-check all our baggage and undergo security and run back a mile in the opposite direction to reach the boarding gate. It was a miracle we made the flight home. And not without a fight, lots of dirty looks from selfish travelers and a couple of minor cuts and bruises. If it weren't for a few understanding immigrants (yes, immigrants) we would have spent Easter in that God-forsaken airport. And I probably would have gotten myself arrested for threats against the State.

But it worked out - the way everything on this trip eventually did.

I am no America hater. I understand border agents have got a huge target of a country to protect and can't be worried about the travel itineraries of every last passenger. But if every other country in the world can figure out how to efficiently move passengers through an airport, maybe it's time the U.S. start taking some notes.

This way. guilty American travellers won't have to constantly feel obliged to apologize on behalf of their country every time the topic comes up.

Must get tiring after a while.      

beyond repair

i have mixed feelings about going back and reading older posts.
the sheer output is impressive. but i also have this uncontrollable urge to go back and edit and rewrite everything. seems like things can always be broken down and simplified.
but enough about me.
wait, this is all about me. all about me writing for you, the invisible audience.
you know the dream where you're standing in front of your class and you're naked?
well, i never had that particular dream.
i have this recurring dream that i haven't studied a single second for perhaps the most important test of my life, only to discover that i have actually been slacking off all semester and that i am already way beyond any sort of last-minute salvation anyway.
and so all that's left to do is to wander the empty hallways.