The Book Book

I wish it was quaint, this book I have called “what i read.” If only it was cloth-covered and full of thick, rough pages. If only the designer had chosen to capitalize the “i" so I didn’t have to (with my teacher’s red pen.)

I bought it from a big-box bookstore that sells books and scented candles and cashmere scarves and yoga mats, and it’s one of millions, I’m sure.

I was probably perusing the bargain tables, covered with senseless towers of mark-downs, searching for Roddy Doyle or Colum McCann. As I recall, this pursuit was rarely fruitful. However, on what must’ve been a biting January afternoon half-way through my second year of University studies, I pulled it from the Journals/Notebooks shelf near the store’s exit and paid for it with money from my student loan.

Each crisp page of “what i read” is lined with the alternating solid and dotted lines of a primary-school exercise book. Some pages have definitions for words like “genre,” “literature,” and “contemplate.” Others bear patronizing sentence starters like “stories i want to share…” and “quotes to remember…” Most pages, the useful pages, have fields for Title, Author, Date, and Thoughts. “what i read” is a record of every book I’ve read for just over five years. There are one hundred and sixteen entries.

When he saw it for the first time, my husband asked me why I needed a book to keep track of my books. He gestured toward the bedroom wall and the bursting bookshelves lining it: Isn’t this enough of a reminder? First, I said, because I have a terrible memory for facts. If asked, I wouldn’t be able to recall the color of my car, let alone the title of the book I’d read a month earlier. Second, for the memories.

For some, a particular scent, a certain song, or a familiar landscape draws vivid memories from the recesses of the mind. When I smell Downy fabric softener, it reminds me of the fair-haired boy I had a crush on as a child. Anne Murray’s You Needed Me seats me behind my dad in the grey leather of our Mercedes, driving through the star-studded blackness of an Alberta night. “A Poetry Handbook” by Mary Oliver, takes me back to a cross-trainer in a crowded gym, my hands and forehead slick with sweat, where I learned the power of hard consonants and liquid vowels. “A Bird in the House” by Margaret Lawrence lands me simultaneously in Manawaka, Manitoba, and the class of a certain untenured professor whose spelling made me wince.

Each title peels away years and months and days, exposing the version of myself that lived and read and learned. Each book holds inky words that spell out its story, as well as the invisible tale of my life while I read.

Shivering in the chill of my air-conditioned office, I read “The Shape of Irish History” by A.T. Q. Stewart. I am preparing for a Post-Colonial Irish Literature course starting next term. When I’m not serving the gruff truck drivers at my shipping/receiving window, I’m reading about Bloody Sunday and the IRA. Names like Sinn Féin and Éamon de Valera perplex and intrigue me. Like a burr stuck somewhere I can’t reach, I start itching for the Irish.

My copy of D.H. Lawrence’s “Sons and Lovers” is a mass-produced paperback with an illustration of a 19^th-century woman cradling her baby boy. The rough pages are awash with Alberta’s blinding November sun as my train emerges from the tunnel to cross the North Saskatchewan. The icy-dead winter compliments the bleakness of the novel. Love, it seems, is forever wasted, I write later. It either spoils or hurts and never benefits anyone. In the end, all it does is cause pain.

The South-African student always wears a green ball-cap, does not speak with an accent, or allow anyone to get a word in edgewise. Shyam Selvadurai’s “Funny Boy” is on the desk in front of me, beneath the fingers I can’t stop tapping. I feel a familiar panic. It creeps up on me each time I attend my Marginalized Literature class. The assigned readings pull at me like Velcro, but the terms being shoved through that space—tetralinguistic model, deterritorialization—weigh like a boulder on my chest. Any academic gains I think I have achieved to this point are made insignificant by my struggle to stay afloat in this class.

DATE: June 2005

TITLE: “Une Vie”

AUTHOR : Guy de Maupassant

THOUGHTS : Life happens when you understand dreams aren’t meant to be realised, they are meant to be perpetuated.

Tears stream down my face as I read the tragic final pages of “A Fine Balance” by Rohinton Mistry. Beside me, on the old tube TV, the Edmonton Oilers are wasting their powerplay in the final minutes of a game versus a better team. My soon-to-be husband rocks back and forth near the window in a brown velvet recliner, his Papa opposite him in a quilt-covered LazyBoy. Papa is leaning forward, animated by the pathetic play of his favorite team, only to lean back and sigh when the buzzer sounds and the Oilers lose again.

“The Birth House” by Amy McKay is a book I can’t read fast enough. I am working at a medical clinic, assistant to the head MD. The hours I spend seated at a desk beside hers are torturous with the book not four inches from my left knee, peeking out from my oversized bag. As soon as the clock strikes coffee break or lunch break or afternoon break, I run away from the sterile vinyl into the blinding summer sun, clutching a baggie of apple slices—the book already open. I walk and walk and read and read and it pains me to tuck the book back into my bag when my fifteen minutes are up.

Like the hush of heat which greeted me those August days, I’m comforted by the unwritten memories waiting between the pages of “what i read.” Mostly. Because like any carefully kept record, it’s near impossible to disregard the not-so-comforting recollections. They grin and snarl menacingly behind otherwise benign titles reminding me that my memory must not, cannot, be selective. Unlike the impression one gets from cheery snapshots in a photo album, life is not all smiles.

I struggle through Jared Diamond’s “Guns, Germs, and Steel.” The content is interesting, but I am focused on which bits to remember so I can bring them up in conversation. I’m also trying to remember the difference between the eight types of red wine and that Shiraz and Syrah mean the same thing. I have spent too much money shopping for clothing—all variations in black—that suit the impressive posture the older man expects, no, insists upon. He might has well be Pizarro, and I, the Inca of Peru.

Nearly every page is dog-eared in “Help Me Live,” by Lori Hope. Each down-turned page represents a full-stop, a slam-down-on-the-table instance or a quietly-close-the-book-and-my-eyes moment while my husband’s mother fights breast cancer. Death, in all its synonyms and metaphors, lurks behind every reluctant smile and underscores uncomfortable silence. It scrawls a question mark beside every plan for the future and poisons even the most beautiful sunsets.

The book is hardly the thing. The record is no more than an empty list without the memories; a scattering of dry bones without the flesh and blood. It evokes a story of another kind. One that can never be read.

Where the Music Comes From

She sits on the solid wooden bench.  The sharp edge remains sharp beneath her thighs and urges her dammed memories to scamper across the keys, past her anxious finger tips.  Raised, curved, never flat -- her teacher would tsk at the length of her nails, which will add their tap-tap to the song.

Before the keys can sound their notes, months of tightness from neglect must be shaken loose. From the piano.  From the musician. The tinny, hollow voice of the piano soon clears as she tests the volume, the tone and the range of the sustain pedal on the instrument which has seen more days than the player.

A shaky scale, fingers tripping over one another in their eagerness to create something other than words.  (They have grown impatient of the clicking, the circuits, the artificial light.  The ergonomic plastic keys.)

Finally, their effort yields a long-forgotten language.  The mind is no longer in control.

After a clumsy arpeggio, a brisk sequence of chords--mezzo-forte--she scans the dusty pages full of Bach. 

Invention No.8 in F

She remembers and the remembering brings a smile as her left hand rests in her lap, not quite prepared for its arduous task.  The right pauses--F Major with the flat B--recalling the special steps, like in a dance.  Allegro brillante, the Latin seems to smile at her from the page as it coaxes her into the quick pace of its three-quarter time.  Her heart imitates the pulse and urges her mind to be still in the rush of sixteenth notes, rejoicing in the occasional sequence of staccato.  In the microscopic chasms--the print of her fingers--lies the map of the song.  

When the notes are near exhaustion and threaten to bow to the banality of repetition...

Prelude in C

And the left hand inhales.  The conductor is poised, ready to faithfully set the stage every two beats for the right-handed melody.  As though silver threads of the Moon were stitched into the page, the notes imitate tidal ebb and flow.  Sometimes telling of the full Moon of May, the keys celebrate in Major mezzo-piano.  But as the mist obscures her guiding light, the waves of minor triads tug at the shore.  Still, the dark shares with the light, and the two glide across the sky and the keys, one making way for the other, until the last chord signals the light of dawn.

When nothing remains but the echoes of music in her memory and the trail of tempo in her palm, the fingers resign.  They know to take to the other page.  They will record what remains of the magical time when the words were none, if only to tempt her: Return.

The Words Stand Alone

The Words Stand Alone

She walked over to me, gave me a hug and said we’d have to go for coffee so she could “spill disapproval into my lap.” My eyes cemented into a blank stare as her quote snatched the breath from my lungs. She was smiling. She didn’t stop smiling, because everything had frozen in its place. My mouth dried up, and my eyes were opened wide with shock and regret. I immediately adopted the posture of un coupable. There was no escape. I looked for a door, a hole, a window—anything. When I caught my breath—my fists locked at my sides—I looked beside and beyond her, and heard myself betray myself, and say I’m sorry. I felt my face turn red as I lowered my gaze. I shrugged, still blushing, and made a mental note: Beware the word you’ve written.
* * *
I have an uncle named Aaron Bushkowsky who lives in Vancouver in a dirty apartment with a mutt named Frankie. My uncle Aaron writes plays and poems and film scripts, and a lot of what he writes had its beginning in a family of seven. Five Bible-name children and two German-Baptist parents and a jalopy and mice and insanity and abuse and Bratwurst, and he’s got a mind full of material from which to write.
When I was small and he was so big with his salt-and-pepper hair and black writerly t-shirts, I would look up into his deep artist’s eyes and think to myself, I want to be just like him.
Once, he flew me out to visit him and his beautiful actress wife. He introduced me to boccocini and Starbucks and the cast of Coronation Street. I explored the backstage of his theatre and met a lesbian for the very first time. His desk was covered with papers: scripts, bits of poems, a grocery list, film reviews. And I thought to myself, I want to be just like him.
On my birthday (if he remembered my birthday), he would send me a book of his poetry, or a collection that held one of his stories. I would smile and put the books lovingly on my shelf once I realized that I didn’t understand what they were about. Ed and Mabel Go to the Moon. Mars is for Poems. I didn’t know why he wrote about outer-space, and thought it was kind of silly, but told myself that he had his name on books and posters and in newspapers, and I didn’t. So I would smile, and the books would smile back from their spot on the shelf.
One night, not too long ago, I couldn’t fall asleep. I remembered the dreamy, starlit covers of my uncle’s books. Taking one, I curled up under my covers ready to fall asleep to shooting stars and supernovas. Instead, I found myself bumping into my family members and their stories. I dog-eared the pages where, between aliens and spacesuits, I read about my grandfather, my mother, my aunt. Suddenly, the pages grew hot between my fingers when I realized the words had been read by strangers long before they’d been read by me.
Some editor had read about my grandfather’s voice—“a shovel scraping gravel” (Bushkowsky 11). A critic had read my grandmother—“counting brush strokes / while the beating went on” (24). An anonymous proofreader had read my great-uncle—“now 68 and wheezing in a half way house” (78). Desperately, I wondered, What about the rest of the story? Where were the poems about the happy things? Where were the poems that said Thank you and I love you and Things weren’t always that bad? And then it occurred to me that my grandfather had this book too. He had read “his footsteps / across cold linoleum” (11). My whole family had gotten these books with a smile and This is my new book, Merry Christmas. My mother read herself “waiting and waiting for dad to leave” (26), and my grandmother would’ve read her “heart falling behind / the rhythm of the machines” (46) before it finally stopped.
The twelve-year old inside me clumsily drew her wooden sword, and swung mightily at the pedestal on which my uncle had stood for so long. With a Merry Christmas, he passed out this ugly family portrait, seen through his deep artist’s eyes. The prose and poetry that he wrote blew up in their faces, and I wondered, who says that’s okay, who gives him permission to write them that way?
I fell asleep angry and clutching the question: Who gives him permission?
But it wasn’t long before I forgot my question, the dog-eared pages, and the family I’d found between the lines. And when I least expected it, and hardly recognized it, the answer came to me.
* * *
“I write to be honest. I write to confront myself. I write to simplify my anxieties. I write to honour those I love. I write to remember what is real. I write to dry my tears. I write to release them. I write to reprimand myself. I write to forgive…”[1] And the list goes on, because somewhere between Barbie-dolls and boyfriends, I inherited the black, writerly t-shirt and the “I” that comes with it.
The writer’s “I” is the one who says that the story is worth reading. Who gives permission to write about friends, family, the world. Who says you should write—must write—at all costs. The writer’s “I” says that every word is like a flag to be planted firmly and proudly on the peak of some mountain, hailing its existence—literal and literary. The “I” recites the writer’s Great Commission in a booming voice from beyond the clouds. The writer basks in the glory of the Cause, then takes up his golden pen and writes the magic words that will change the world.
The “I” who inspires me to sit at the keyboard and write something, anything, is the same “I” who gives my uncle permission to write my grandmother into the grave. Perhaps, if all writers were infinitely wise and full of the understanding of the world, the commission to write would not be such a dangerous thing, but our “writing selves” generally don’t seem to possess infinite wisdom or the understanding of the world.
My “writing self” is a chubby twelve-year old with short hair and glasses, wearing a too-long grey t-shirt and baggy jeans, who looks in the mirror, tries to ignore her reflection, and just go on with her day. Like a baby fondling a stick of dynamite, the idea of my “writing self” backed by the ammunition of the written word is a frightening one. When I write, I write my story, my life, my way. My “writing self” plants her literary flag solemnly amid the final trumpet blasts and anonymous applause, in that sun-on-her-face moment, then giggles and skips down the side of the mountain in search of another.
Meanwhile, night and day play a perpetual game of tag. The wind blows, the rain falls, the sun shines, and my flag—which I’ve forgotten by now—continues to flap in the breeze. And sooner or later, a little worse for the wear, it is discovered by a passer-by, and my “writing self” is summoned to explain why my flag is there. Seated at a steel table under the glare of a swaying electric bulb, I find that it’s no longer a symbol of literary triumph, but a spear in someone’s side. And I wonder: Who replaced my rattle with TNT?
* * *
“They loved me then and I know they love me now. Smiling at me from across the table; four eyes between two women had seen me grow from a small child into whatever I had become. They want to catch up while they’re in town.
How is school?
How do you like work?
Are you going to a church?
Great!
I love it!
Not regularly.
They go cross-eyed looking at the straws they’re sucking on—diet Pepsi.
I tap my fingernails on the table.
So you have a date tonight?
I can’t help but smile as the butterflies take flight. I come so close to forgetting the question that comes next.
Is he a Christian?
Bye-bye butterflies.
No.
She reaches for the salt but catches the straw on her sleeve. She spills disapproval into my lap.”[2]

I wrote about Chris and Donna, and one incident. From a decade of friendship, I found out the one time they made me feel bad, and I wrote about it. As far as the reader is concerned, nothing else existed.
* * *
“She reaches for the salt but catches the straw on her sleeve. She spills disapproval into my lap.”
The words circulated between me and the members of my writing class, then settled comfortably between the pages of a folder on a bookshelf in my living room. Then, more than a year later, they blew up in my face.
Donna wanted to read the piece that had gotten so much attention. I was happy to have her read it, but had forgotten the sentence. It was only one sentence in one segment on one page in one paper, one of the many flags I had abandoned and forgotten. And it was about her.
My hindsight hand reaches out in vain, in slow-motion, screaming “NO” wishing to intercept the exchange. I handed her a copy and ignored the faint tick-tick-tick and the bit of a fuse that hung from that sentence in that segment on that page in that paper.
Then it blew up in my face.
* * *
She walked over to me, gave me a hug and said we’d have to go for coffee so she could “spill disapproval into my lap”.
The frozen-smile, shoulder-shrugging episode unfolded, and my “writing self” was brought to the steel table. Donna’s silhouette stood in the shadows and I squinted under the glare of a swinging electric bulb. My flag, a little worse for the wear, was thrown onto the table. Shamefully, sweat pouring from my brow, I said I’m sorry and the scene dissolved.
That day, and the next day, and the next day, I wriggled uncomfortably beneath the knowledge of what I had done. I had been writing for myself, to myself, yet, to the world, the world that consisted only of an anonymous reader.
The piece I handed her—the one I wrote her into—was entitled Between Two Worlds, and should’ve reminded me that I still had a foot in each. I wrote Donna into my piece, awarded her action and emotion and literary existence, and wasn’t prepared to stand before the living, breathing, nonliterary Donna, and take responsibility for my words. But I hadn’t thought about the real-life Donna. I had been writing for myself.
I had written without regard for her feelings, without a concept of loyalty to anything but the writer’s “I.”
I realized that what I’d handed her that day was not just a paper, but a slap in the face. One that she would receive seated on a couch in the corner of her loft, with a coffee in one hand and a bomb in the other. She would read six pages before finding herself written into the seventh. There she was, spilling “disapproval into my lap.” Ka-boom.
Despite the disaster that occurred in the loft of Dear Donna’s quaint home, she walked over to me, gave me a hug, and gave me the chance to do damage control. To utter a confused, embarrassed, twelve-year-old sorry.
But not before the voice of a comrade could whisper from beyond the clouds. He tells me not to say Sorry, that I didn’t do anything wrong. He asks me, “Isn’t disloyalty as much the writer’s virtue as loyalty is the soldier’s?”(Murray 84).
His words are yanking on my sleeve, and I tell him to Be quiet, she can hear you! I take him by the ear and drag him away, but I know he’s always been there and always will be, beyond the clouds. The voice at the summit. And I know he’s right, but what about Donna?
* * *
I don’t understand Natalie Goldberg when she says “I am writing for myself” (Goldberg 72).
Dear Donna inspires me to unearth Natalie’s flag and wave it rudely in her face. Taking a deep breath, and pushing my glasses up my twelve-year-old nose, I tell her that When you write, whenever you write, you can never write just for yourself. A reader is always there. Even the most obscure sentences—scrawled on a napkin, in a diary, or in the steam of a bathroom mirror—exist innocently enough until someone discovers them. There is always the chance that someone will read what you’ve written.
* * *
(One summer I held a job that put me in daily contact with truck drivers. By the end of the summer, I had grown quite fond of them and decided to write a goodbye letter. I typed it out, printed it into leaflets and posted them outside my office window on my last day. A few months later, I got a call from a driver who said he’s picked up a “Pro-Trucker Magazine” and found my letter published inside.)
* * *
When you write, whenever you write, you can never write just for yourself.
I wrote for myself and destroyed Donna’s loft.
My uncle writes for himself and my mother carefully sweeps up the debris.
And so I don’t like Natalie Goldberg when she says “I am writing for myself” because I know she is we, and I just can’t justify the mess. I am not satisfied that “the writer and the reader communicate only through the page” (Atwood 1). I am afraid of what happens when the writer is not summoned to the steel table to be given the chance to explain—when there is no shadowed silhouette or swinging electric bulb. Because then, the words stand alone.
* * *
“When a writer is born into a family, that family is finished” (Dufresne 12).
I used to laugh at those words, but now I sigh at the tragedy behind the truth. Milosz understands that my “writing self” is a moody twelve-year-old, self-centered and disloyal, who enjoys climbing mountains and planting flags and hop-scotching away from responsibility. He understands I will forever peer through parted fingers at my world—the one I write for myself, and the people I write into it. I will forever utter a confused, embarrassed, twelve-year-old Sorry. I will forever need to be reminded: Beware the word you’ve written.
Works Cited

Atwood, Margaret. “Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing.” Conversations about Writing: Eavesdropping, Inkshedding, and Joining In. Eds. M. Elizabeth Sargent & Cornelia C. Paraskevas. Ontario, Toronto: Nelson, 2005. 1.

Bushkowsky, Aaron. Mars is for Poems. Lantzville, British Colombia: Oolichan, 2002.

Dufresne, John. The Lie That Tells a Truth: A Guide to Writing Fiction. New York, New York: Norton, 2003. 12.

Goldberg, Natalie. “Writing Down the Bones.” Sargent & Paraskevas. 2005. pp 72-77.

Murray, Donald. “A Writer’s Habit.” Sargent & Paraskevas. 2005. pp 82-88.
[1] From an imitation exercise of Terry Tempest Williams’ “Why I Write.”
[2] From “Between Two Worlds” written by myself.

Why I Write - An Exercise in Imitation

When asked why I love, no matter what my beloved might be, I am hesitant to say. Since the love lives already as the thing chosen and independent, the reluctant reply is always unsatisfying – repulsive almost. In every case, the language inevitably falls short in its task. Unavoidably, the written word as my beloved, expressed through that very medium, also fails to be wholly revealed. Nonetheless…
I write to be honest. I write to confront myself. I write to simplify my anxieties. I write to honour those I love. I write to remember what is real. I write to dry my tears. I write to release them. I write to reprimand myself. I write to forgive. I write to extend myself beyond my mind. I write to practice vulnerability. I write for my father. I write to challenge. I write to anchor my emotions. I write because I cannot paint. I write toward freedom. I write to discover truth. I write to expose contradictions. I write for the Giver of the gift. I write with a stutter. I write for furrowed brows. I write to raise a voice in the silence. I write to ask so many questions. I write because I am weak. I write away from my ambivalence. I write to learn commitment. I write what I know I should say. I write so as not to forget my mistakes. I write to retain perspective. I write to amend my priorities. I write from a weary spirit. I write to have my cup overflow.
I write for the one who inspired those first words for the second time.
I write to someday be the complete half of a complete whole.
I write from beauty to strength.

Nineteen

Nineteen by Kristen Liesch

One hand on the wheel, eyes closed, shouldn’t be closed, but the sunshine weighs on my lashes. My other hand drums a beat as it hangs out my window. It’s cold enough to turn my fingernail blue, and cold enough to chill my toes and set my leg-hairs all a-prickle but there’s the sunshine. Hello sunshine. And they said on the radio that we’re expecting nineteen for the high tomorrow. I open my eyes wide and just in time to brake too hard and say nineteen out loud enough for the guy in the car next to me to turn his head and snicker. Nineteen and now I’m flying high at the red light, parked behind the little yellow bus.
A relic of a woman is crossing the street. She’s bent over as though she spent her whole life watching her feet, and she’s only half the way across when she’s found herself in the middle of impatient morning traffic with a green light. She pauses and reaches out a leathery grey hand to match the leathery grey jacket that casts her thin shadow. I try to will the bee-line of cars next me to Halt! But her hand does the trick and with a hop, skip, and a hobble, she’s across.
I take off just as the light turns yellow and reminds me of the sunshine and that I can expect a high of nineteen tomorrow.
My morning drive makes way for an emerging coincidence: red lights and old ladies. This one might not be old, but it seems as though she’s lived long enough to abandon whatever made her unhappy in life. She’s wearing a bright green bandana, waving Hello sunshine in the breeze. And the baby she balances on her hip lets out a Ma-ma Ma-ma and waves its plastic fingers at the stream of business-casual crazies driving by.
I’m jealous of the plastic handled clear nylon bag clutched in her pudgy fist. Crayons and a newspaper are her must-haves and I want to trade her for my textbook and the responsibility hiding inside my wallet, and the work clothes hanging in the back, and the honk,…the honk. It’s coming from behind and I’m off. Bastard can’t enjoy an extra second of sunshiny silence. He’s got somewhere to be. Has he heard about the expected high? He’s on that wireless, car-friendly phone that makes him self-conscious because he’s well aware that it looks like he’s talking to himself. Him and the man on the corner. They have more in common than either would like to admit. He—Frank, Joe, Sylvestre, Bruce—leans against the lamppost and looks too hot in his too heavy jacket. And I wonder. I wonder what he does with it when the expected high is nineteen. I’ve never heard of a storage unit for the down-and-out who need to downsize for the summer. Here, hold this for me, I’ll be back for it in September. Until then, adios and enjoy the high. Maybe he’ll give it back to Goodwill where he’ll be sure to find it in a few months. Where he’ll be sure to grumble about the need for a better system when he forks over the three-fifty to buy back his jacket in September.
Now my honk count is up to two and I scoot my way down the road and smile at the emphatic gesture coming from the driver passing me. Because it’s too nice outside to begin the day with furrowed brows and bitter complicity.
Learning is where it’s at. Two more weeks of it until the doors burst open and floods of brain-dead students rush toward summer to counteract the academic efforts with sunshine and booze. Brain-dead to brain-damage thanks to the forecast high.
Nothing will ever be the same. I want to believe it because it’s so convincing. Like a full moon or an eclipse or a war or an election—people go funny over sunshine.
A man walking the sidewalk stops in his tracks and sees something that’s been buried under eight months of snow. A rock. A big one. The kind of rock with a plaque on it that tells the history of the building across the street. He puts his booted foot on the rock and becomes Columbus, shading his eyes with his hand, he gazes at the monument of Albertan architecture. Like all historic buildings, they’ll be affordable housing in a hundred years, if they don’t burn down first. Funny. Funny like the bike the bearded man rides. Like he’s leaning back in his race-car. Vroom vroom. I imagine him falling over and bursting into flames. Mother Nature mistook him for a motorist, and for once decided to get her revenge. Oops. Instead, he pedals across while the real motorists beg Big Momma to spare them again, please. At least until after that eight o’clock board meeting.
I’m across the bridge and late for class, but I can’t help but smile because it has just begun. Soon I’m walking with a shimmy in my step, remnants of a belly-dancing class mixed with the Jack Johnson plugged in my ears that makes my world a musical. He sings “banana pancakes,” and “the mess he made.” I smile, smile at everything: water-coloured, once-bright candies in a clump in the dusty-muddy-grassy mush that once was a lawn. Before the snow fell and covered the green and the garbage that comes back now to haunt the littering fool who thought that Jack Frost would take care of the mess. But it’s all part of the expected high that expects rollerbladers, cyclists, skateboarders, then sends out the mini-tractors to kick up dust in the midnight black by the light of two mechanical, electrical eyes.
For now, I kick the rubble and smile. I walk tall, just in case the twigs above me might want to reach down and tangle themselves in my hair. I’d hardly mind. I smile at the few blades of grass peeking out asking the forecast temperature. Nineteen, I’m happy to whisper before flaring my little nostrils and breathing deep all the smells—nasty and otherwise—into my lungs that scream It must be spring.
I sit down beside a friend and realize I’m really late for class, but the view from his window bench makes me forget. I smile and tell him about the old ladies and the man and the drivers and the cyclist and the candies and tell him about the forecast high. Nineteen, he repeats, and slaps his hand on my thigh and we laugh because it’s only begun.

Word Waves

I ran toward my father, spraying sand in the air, to find him slouched in a plastic folding chair. Bending over him and flicking my salty brown hair across his neck, I examined the bright white page of his open book. I asked him what he was reading. His explanation was complex and poly-syllabic, but that didn’t stop me from smiling and nodding. You want to read some? he asked me. Taking the book into my small, gritty hands, I peered at the page, searching for a period and a capital—an appropriate place to begin. Some of the words were familiar, like the, like, and because, but the rest were long and stretched out like lumpy worms. I tackled each one with an eye on the book and an eye on my father. He smiled, twitched his moustache, and crossed his sun-burned arms across his chest.
I read until I was out of breath from reading the sentences which were much longer than those in my Thoroughbred series. And soon my legs itched with the drying salt water and sand clinging to my fine hairs. That was enough. Smirking, I handed the book back to my dad—told him it was interesting—and ran back to the cool of oceansplash, past my mother who lay on her towel reading the Christian version of Danielle Steele.
In a fleeting moment illuminated by the pulsing sun and waves, I thought to myself, I am my father’s daughter.

Let's Try Again

I have often tried to write about my mother. She is remarkable in the ways every mother should be, dull in the ways every woman wishes she weren’t. And it’s her story I want to tell, which is as unique as the smell of her bread and the sound of her laugh. But she’s sensitive. When I ring her up and ask for permission (again) to write about this or that, the sharp, short inhale that comes before the I guess reminds me of this. Also, I’m not the only writer in the family. And the other one doesn’t wait or ask for permission before publishing part of her life. So I’ve tried to be gentle. Yet everything I’ve tried has remained just that, an attempt, an effort incomplete.
Now, I find myself older than she was when first she met, then married, my father—when she ventured into womanhood with her faith and her companion. And I’m afraid, that as I age beyond her echo, she—along with her uniquely ordinary journey—will be left un-celebrated. So she’s given me permission, once again, to try to tell part of her story.