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.

in perfect context

There's that one story which she tells so nicely.

Today it came between games of Scopa. Something about the way she was wringing her hands while I was mixing the cards that must have triggered it. I knew it was going to be that specific one too. I could tell by the first words. Even the quality of the breath before the words, I think. The context was calling for it. And it amazes me that she's still right on it. It never ceases to amaze me, actually.

Her father is sitting down at the kitchen table. Probably after dinner. He's doing the accounts. And he's got his head in his hands because he's stumped.

And then my grandmother brings all ten fingers to her two temples to show me exactly what he looked like in those moments. Because those moments are now perfectly frozen in her mind. As if they just happened yesterday. And her blue eyes are suddenly locked in that moment. She's staring at the same numbers her father was. Staring at numbers that just didn't add up.

And then his wife, my grandmother's mother, would place her hands on his back and lean into those numbers and point out exactly where he had gone wrong. She probably knew it without even looking at them - my grandmother seems almost sure of it as she fills in more context. The woman with her caring hands on her husband's back was technically illiterate after all. (Off-Alphabet is the literal Italian translation) So the numbers themselves wouldn't have meant anything. But she had listened to him struggle with these same calculations before. She got the context. Just like her daughter would. And her daughter's daughter, for that matter.

And just like his great grandson would so many years after his death, her husband would just shake his head in disbelief. Every single time, he would. How is it that his wife knew all these things so intuitively, he would ask. His daughter would just watch and never answer the question. But she would record everything with her blue eyes. The tenderness in that disbelief. The grace in being right.

And so much never needing to be said.  

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.
      

one day, even the ocean will go still and silent

"Robbie. Feels like you've been living here forever, ya."

Like I had become part of the furniture, I joked back. Smita had been repeating that line since day one. I knew she always meant it in the best possible way. But then I'm not sure what triggered the thought on this night. It had unfolded like any other. The three of us would have our midnight meal together, without fail. Some nights we'd watch Arnab Goswami grill some pigheaded official on The Newshour, other times we'd just sit on the couch and discuss books I should read, share family stories or laugh giddily about how much weight the three of us had gained since I came to Bombay. It was a good thing too, we'd agree, over green tea. We had all found some kind of happy routine together, temporary as it would be. But on this night Smita couldn't imagine how it would feel when Puji and I would no longer be there. 

In many ways Smita had become the adopted older sister I never had. Forget that I was actually the eldest. She was far more responsible and mature than I would ever be. But we still had a lot in common. We had both just come out of very long-term relationships. We both looked to avoid unnecessary drama in our lives and called things out exactly as we saw them. So I can't say I was surprised we got along so well. I just never thought I'd have an opportunity to get to know her as well as I had. There had been several times where we got to speak about our pasts, one on one, while Puji was either sleeping or doing her own thing. I always spoke to her as honestly as possible. I never made myself out to be the good guy. And what I had written in that letter to her still stood. This is why we never felt like strangers. 

But on this one particular night she wanted to hear the story of how Puji and I met. She was, after all, a storyteller at heart. It's not as if she didn't know most of it already. But then Puji had managed to keep many of those early months secret from her - possibly because the two of them had been fighting so much at the time. And while she had never really approved of any of her sister's choices, with me there had been little protest. Just be careful. That was all Smita had said. Maybe it was a feeling. Despite her realistic streak, Smita still believed all things happened for a reason.

It felt like ages since I had told this story. I had forgotten how beautiful a story it was. And the fact that I had come to know Puji in a completely different way didn't diminish that one bit. 

I filled in as many blanks as I could, especially about Amy. She was an important part of the story. And with her birthday looming she had been on my mind a lot. I still worried for her happiness. I had put her through hell, even when trying my best to be honest. I had lied to her. I had fallen off the map emotionally and pulled the rug out from under a life we had been building up for so many years. And then I had given her no choice but to move on. I knew she would too. Maybe she already was. It was hurting less to think so. I felt free to speak about all this in front of Smita. I felt free. It was a feeling more powerful than any guilt or homesickness. All I felt that night was intense love for all concerned.

Puji and I shared storytelling duties and quietly smiled at each other every now and then. It might have been the nicest conversation the three of us had had together.

I think Puji and I had needed to hear the story as much as her sister had. Maybe we had lost track of just how incredible ours was. Smita smoked, listened and asked many questions. Was she comparing my story to her own? I knew she understood that somewhere along the line I had fallen out of love with Amy. Maybe the two of us had grown too comfortable together. And us being best friends had just made it all the more heart wrenching to say goodbye. I thought these were the kind of things only people who had lived through long-term relationships could truly understand. But then that was only half of the story. Smita also had to know that the only reason things had worked out between Puji and I was because we both wanted it to. God or fate alone would not have been enough. 

She told me how the Buddhists believed that any person incapable of learning from their mistakes in one life would be destined to repeat them in the next life. Those who harmed you would reappear in different forms. Even from a non-religious angle this made perfect sense to me. He who doesn't learn from history is doomed to repeat it. I knew in my heart that Smita would heal as she needed to. Just as Amy would. And as for Puji and I, these moments made our own insecurities seem inconsequential. It was exactly the kind of night we all needed to have. And I hoped there would be many more like this before we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.

Fiona

To be honest, I always thought Fiona would have made a beautiful girl's name. I think we both did.

But then it's just as well. It did not go to waste. Now and for the rest of my days, I will forever associate that name not only with my favourite singer, but with my little Black Beauty. My little Fiona Cat. My little Fionakis.

For the longest time, I wasn't exactly sure what to write about her. Every cat that I've had the pleasure of knowing has come with a very particular personality. It just takes time to figure it out; to discover those special little things that make you slowly fall for them, until that day you realize things just feel a little emptier when they're no longer around. Before that day comes they're just cute kittens: playful, persistent and often intolerable. Cute kittens all kind of look the and act the same. Kind of like kids before they learn how to talk.

I can't pinpoint the exact moment Fiona won me over. You never can, you know. But ever since I've been away from her, I miss her pudgy little miniature body. I miss the way she always greets me at the door. The way she always waits for Pepe at the window by the couch, screams when he's arrived and then pounces on him demanding a giant bear hug the second he gets in. I'll miss her impossibly soft coat. Her slipper soft personality. The feel of her sandpaper tongue against my fingernails. Her insufferable attraction to the mouse pointer projected on the television. And the casual way she almost always comes around whenever I put my feet up on the couch to find the most comfortable way to sit on my crotch. A calming closeness - this is at the heart of our symbiotic connection.

Some cats punish you with the cold shoulder for skipping out on them. Not Fiona. Fiona's got a heart of gold. She always comes around, no matter how many days it's been. On days I do get to see her now it's like I never left. And she'll probably still come around when those days become weeks and those weeks become months. She'll probably get a little heavier. She might lose that innocent gleam in her eye. She might even become skeptical and have to eye me over with her jet black goatee,  if only for a confused second. But then she'll smell me and I'll be forgiven. I'm pretty sure of that.

And in that way, I guess things will always remain simple between us. No hard feelings. No regrets. No quiet, awkward disappointment. We will always be tattooed to each other in this special way, until the day she is only tattooed to me. The same way Pepe is. The same way Tigger will always be.

There will always be another day to chill, Fiona. I promise.

the silent treatment

What's not to like about spending a day with my Uncle Sal.

For starters, it's so rare. I'm not even sure I've ever even painted with him - even if I have spoken of the legend on more than one occasion. The way he can just stand there perched over a ladder, cutting a ceiling like it's nobody's business with his shirt half unbuttoned and a cigarette dangling from his lips. The classic pose of perfect Italian concentration. Quiet, patient. I'd like to think we all have an Uncle Sal. The no-bullshit guy with the rock-solid values. The one who doesn't mince words and rarely spares anyone's feelings, especially his own. Yeah, that guy.

So it was just nice to spend the day painting with him. I feel like maybe we both paint for the same reasons - ones that go beyond simply having to, of course. It's to make clean. To start fresh. To meditate. For him, today was a way to let off some steam; for me, a way to calm some nerves.

I won't even venture to guess how many different homes he has painted for his sons and other family members. How many thank yous he probably never received. He shared his frustrations. I kept my anxiety to myself. But for he most part, we both wrestled our inner demons in peaceful silence; the wet sound of paint on brush on wall. Few orders given and none repeated. Little small talk and no useless chatter.

And maybe that was the best part of it all. All the things that can be left unsaid.

 

he said bad day, looking for the great Escape

Last night we went to see my cousin. He tried to kill himself two weeks ago.

He swallowed a bottle of Tylenol in the very same apartment and then called himself an ambulance. There had been no planning. There was no note. He just decided in the darkness of the moment that he wanted out; then perhaps just as easily understood the implications of what he was doing and wanted out again.

Maybe just a cry for help. That's what I kept repeating to myself as I tried my best to read him under his red cap. What's the difference? What do you say to someone who is down enough to even consider putting an end to it all?

In my own life I have learned that it's impossible to convince someone that life isn't as bad as they think it to be in the moment. I have also been on the other side of that discussion. The truth is that in that moment you have nothing going for you and every last piece of your life is broken - or at least perceived to be broken. It's broken because you're broken. And no amount of hollow reassurances can change that.

So we just sat there and talked and ate bad pizza. There were some tough questions, some very palpable frustration and a few hand wringing moments.

But for the most part, we avoided the topic. The way we always do. Maybe the most important thing was just that we were there. Maybe all he needed was a couple of distracting hours; someone to laugh at the televised Charbonneau Commission with.

The sad truth is that we all do most of our suffering alone. We're born alone and we die alone.

forever by your bedside

I don't think I was ever so relieved to get to the hospital to visit my grandmother.

I'll explain. I'm no fan of hospitals but I was just coming from a funeral home. I don't remember ever meeting Anthony. He was just 23-years-old. Died of a mysterious heart attack - not that the cause really matters. His mother was catatonic and inconsolable, denying the fact with a numbing repetition that made it impossible to focus on anything else. I watched her call out her father's name in a similar manner two years ago, the last time I saw this side of the family all together. This was a whole other world of hurt.

Then more bad news struck even closer to home. I found out my first cousin tried to commit suicide this weekend. Ingested too many pills with alcohol and then called the ambulance himself. My brain would not compute the reality - even if it had been quietly preparing for this very news for years.

So this is why I felt a strange sort of calm as I made my way through the familiar emergency room at the Jewish, straight to the elevator and up to the sixth floor. I even let myself get lost for a little bit - enough to find a decent coffee, anyhow.

When I finally did find my grandmother, she was just sitting next to her bed finishing off her dinner. Her hair was combed and golden and her face flush with life and colour. I knew it would be just me and her tonight and that kind of put my mind at ease. I was looking forward to just concentrating on her without getting distracted by background conversation - which is unfortunately easier to do with someone who has a tendency to ramble and repeat herself while storytelling.

I'm always relieved to know she still recognizes me and generally knows what's going on in my life. It makes me feel special even though that's probably stupid. I know even those details are getting hazy. (She asked me if it was still snowing outside, then gently brushed off the question) But then she kind of assured me as much when making reference to the old woman across the hall, who asked me to open her pudding cup and then couldn't even remember where her bed was or whether or not she was even in the right room.

"At least you still remember me," I joked in my broken Italian.
"Yes, I always remember you," she replied.

And then we got talking. We started with the funeral and she almost immediately wanted to change the subject. Then she told me how her mother never really recovered from losing her only son Angelo at 12 years old - the fact that she still had six daughters to raise offering little consolation. My grandmother told me the day her mother died, she stood by her bedside and heard her dead brother's name cross her lips as she reached for her light and slipped away for good.

Then she started telling me about my grandfather, who died before I was a teenager. I never heard her say much about him aside from pointing out he couldn't even make himself toast or boil an egg when push came to shove. Nothing like his brother, anyway. But as we were talking about functional and dysfunctional relationships she told me how the only times they really fought was when he would disappear for nights at a time playing cards. She somehow always managed to track him down (with God's help, of course) and finally got him to admit that cards were the one vice he could not control. In her persistent way, I think it was more important for my grandmother to be acknowledged for raising her four kids alone, for slaving over her sowing machine at all hours of the day and night and for never having to ask her husband for a cent. She was always a proud woman, though maybe too wise to believe she could change the man she was with.

She was repeating herself quite a bit but I was loving every minute of it. I kept thinking that I needed to get home to get this all down. Because this magical conversation - which was somehow everything I needed to be hearing right now - could not be lost or smudged to my poor memory.

And then she said something that blew my mind and nearly broke my heart.

She told me that even if I didn't think her words were important tonight, that I would wake up one day and realize they were. Then she took her right index finger to her right temple, her blue eyes wide and ablaze, and predicted that I would remember everything she said tonight because my brain could not afford to let it go. Maybe the pointless details, but not this. And she promised me I would even remember sitting on the hospital bed in this particular hospital room - the way she still remembered things her mother had told her with perfect clarity - when she was dead and gone.

And then she started to tear up, the way she always does. Releasing the unspoken emotion for the both of us. And she asked me for a glass of water and I gently massaged her arm and smiled.

And did my best to capture every last detail of that beautiful moment.

happy family. happy family

It doesn't take a whole lot to stoke an argument in my family - Mother's Day or not. I believe last night's started with me making an innocent comment to my parents like "you guys should really think of buying a condo in Spain" and it quickly degenerated into something else altogether. And for once, it wasn't me or my brother leading the charge. People who are diametrically opposed are doomed to a life of needless arguing and bickering and keeping score. And always seeing the world half empty, just like the proverb says.

I am my parents' son

It was good to see my parents last night.

I should clarify. It was good to see my parents more relaxed last night. More than they've been in a long while, anyway. The Cuban air definitely did some good. But I think being away from Nonna had even more to do with it - as difficult as it would be for my mom to admit.

It's a terrible thing to call anyone a burden - let alone your own mother. And I still can't bring myself to even consider my grandmother being that to anyone in our family. My uncles might act like it and may even agree with their wives in the privacy of their own homes. But I know they all care in their own ways. They all sympathize with my Mom but no one is willing to do anything more about it. Everyone's got their own problems, it seems.

And so my Mom (and my father, by proxy) has shouldered the heavy brunt. My Nonna was always difficult when it came to her health, but the Alzheimer's - although still in its relative infancy - has made living with her and caring for her even more frustrating and stressful.

So last night at the supper table, with Nonna still sitting in a hospital bed in Room 658B, the three of us had a very frank and honest conversation about how to help my Mom avoid having another nervous breakdown over this. And being a reasonably fair split between the two of them, I really feel like for the first time in a long time I was able to find a way to reconcile their very different approaches without stoking any of the old fires.

I felt like a judge and psychologist. I heard both sides. I translated viewpoints and gave my own when it was relevant. And I couldn't help but think of Don Corleone in the Godfather, doing his best to manage a generally unsolvable situation that is only likely to deteriorate.

It made me appreciate both of them so much more. And understand myself a little better.

a needle in a haystack. kind of.

I need to get this down before my body shuts down.

Everything about last night was amazing. In about five high-powered hours, I managed to create (recreate) the Terzo Lounge (minus one very important sign that never went up because my brother ducked out until the tournament with one of his infamous bronchial bouts) All the furniture just seemed to fit into place. There will be a more official ressurrection, but the building and I shared ours last night.

The tournament was awesome. We were six teams and the competition was stellar. There is talk of a possible league in the making.

This morning was kind of funny. Coming back from the vet with Fiona in one hand and two chocolatines in the other, I found Amy's parents literally raking the heavy snow that had been piled around our driveway since last night. Amy had called me mid-game last night. After spending more than an hour shoveling our walkway and parking spaces in a bid to impress Davey and I, she had somehow managed to lose her car keys.

It was a nice gesture and the whether was gorgeous, so the four of us dug in. I didn't have any hope for finding the keys and neither did Amy. But her mom kept explaining how Mark managed to locate lost contact lenses in 10-foot pools on more than one occasion. If nothing else, Mark is methodical. That much I have learned. We worked like grim volunteers digging for remains. And just when all hope seemed lost, they keys reappeared about an hour in. Another notch on the old CV, I joked.

We decided to pick up some killer Italian at one of our favourite spots and ate way too much for a Saturday afternoon.

We eventually got on the topic of family and Amy's mom gave me a little more insight into her own family tree. Her neurotic and defiant mom, who would hang the laundry out in her bra and panties to give the neighbours even more to talk about. Her uncle the drunk and womanizer - who left Auntie Marge to raise her own four kids without as much as a cent of support. And her own father, who would never even stick around to hold his own "crippled" daughter.

I winced, but this is why family trees fascinate me. They hide nothing. Amy's mom always talks about how she's going to write a book one day. I hope she does.