"You always remember your first kiss."
Do you? Really?
I haven't a clue about my first kiss. I have no recollection of that historic milestone. Was it with my first boyfriend? I don't think so, and if it had been, I don't remember kissing him either.
Perhaps I'm just not very good at firsts, or at least first kisses. My reaction to kissing someone for the first time is immediately thinking, "This feels weird."
I do, however, remember my first car, my first cat, my first roller coaster ride; all the important things that have nothing to do with romance.
I don't remember my first hangover either. Another magical moment whisked away by time and a faulty memory.
2015 was a year of firsts for me, some very important yet not entirely pleasant firsts that have changed everything.
It was also a year of lasts, some very important lasts, that have also changed things. It made me think about the things that happen to us every day, the things we barely notice, or struggle through, or take for granted. That sometimes we need to look at those things and realize that they may not last. Or that they don't have to.
So if you can't remember your first kiss, or conversation, or fight, or hang gliding accident, or tetanus shot, don't worry. Just remember the last one. The lasts are where the lessons are.
Tuesday, January 05, 2016
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Downtown - Reminiscence
This is part four of my Downtown bit. This one was originally written in the first person, but didn't fit in as well with the other third person pieces.
-----------------------------
Another Jack and seven gets him one step closer to destitution as he sits there in the shadows that seek out guys like him. This smoke-filled, last-stop booze joint caught him in his tumble down through towns he doesn’t recall and women that never stuck. Days travelling from gig to gig, him and his guitar lookin’ for a good time and an audience, are fresh in his mind amid a haze of other things – the “good ol’ days”.
Round the bottom of Jack number four he gets to wondering what ever happened to that guitar.
The bartender looks his way and he knows he's been mumbling out loud. He throws back the last of his drink and makes his way home, stumbling out the door into tomorrow to go home and dream about yesterday.
-----------------------------
Another Jack and seven gets him one step closer to destitution as he sits there in the shadows that seek out guys like him. This smoke-filled, last-stop booze joint caught him in his tumble down through towns he doesn’t recall and women that never stuck. Days travelling from gig to gig, him and his guitar lookin’ for a good time and an audience, are fresh in his mind amid a haze of other things – the “good ol’ days”.
Round the bottom of Jack number four he gets to wondering what ever happened to that guitar.
The bartender looks his way and he knows he's been mumbling out loud. He throws back the last of his drink and makes his way home, stumbling out the door into tomorrow to go home and dream about yesterday.
Impression
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Noteworthy
Part three of Downtown.
He stands alone in the shelter of a closed up shop on Water Street. His fingers, calloused with the practice of his passion, move skillfully over worn strings. In the heat of summer and in winter's biting cold, he plays.
They rush past without seeing, vision focused until there is none. He sings about them as they pass - honest words, pure voice - but they do not hear. They are occupied with significant things; the evening meal, catching the train, picking up the dry cleaning.
Occasionally one will stop, listen to his song, nod or tap a foot to his tune. He appreciates this more than the coins thrown absently into his battered guitar case.
He stands alone in the shelter of a closed up shop on Water Street. His fingers, calloused with the practice of his passion, move skillfully over worn strings. In the heat of summer and in winter's biting cold, he plays.
They rush past without seeing, vision focused until there is none. He sings about them as they pass - honest words, pure voice - but they do not hear. They are occupied with significant things; the evening meal, catching the train, picking up the dry cleaning.
Occasionally one will stop, listen to his song, nod or tap a foot to his tune. He appreciates this more than the coins thrown absently into his battered guitar case.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
My Neighbour Hates Me
I'm a nice person. Ask anyone. They'll say this: "She's nice". Or maybe: "She's really nice".
Most of the neighbours.
It started a few years ago. Well, it really started when I first moved here, but I only found out about it a few years ago. A new family moved in next door, and I asked how they were settling in.
"Just great", the husband told me. "We've met the Ryans and the Lindstroms. Yesterday we met the Hawcos down the street."
"Curt has been introducing us around, of course. He's like a department store greeter," The wife said.
Curt?
"Yes, you know. Lives across the street in the yellow house. So friendly."
Yes, I knew Curt. I just didn't get it. I'd been living on the street for eight years and he had never spoken more than two words to me. His wife Peggy was very friendly, and always stopped for a chat when we met. His kids played with my kids. I just thought he wasn't a people person.
I asked my husband about it.
"Curt? Yeah, he's friendly enough. I run into him at the store or the mailboxes and we shoot the breeze."
That's when I started watching him. I watched him stop on the street to talk to the neighbours. I watched him help the Johnstons shovel their walk. I watched him knock on the Lindstrom's door and chat for fifteen minutes. I passed him on the sidewalk three times that week. Nothing. No smile, no nod. He didn't even make eye contact.
I watched him on the days he brought his kids to the bus. He talked with the other parents, but when I entered the conversation he talked around me, never to me. No one else seemed to notice. On the days we were there alone he wouldn't speak. I wondered if I should try to talk to him, show him I was friendly. Show him I was nice. Making eye contact was difficult. He turned his back to me.
One day I spotted him at the mail boxes. This was it. There was no way he could avoid me. I said good morning in my friendliest tone.
"Hello, Dear," he said, and walked away. No warmth. No smile.
Since then he has gone out of his way to ignore me. He crosses the street when he sees me coming.
Everyone likes me. Everyone thinks I'm nice. So I really need to know.
What has he figured out?
I give cookies to the bus driver, I pick up after my dog, I don't make noise after 10:00 pm. I'm friendly with the neighbours.
Most of the neighbours.
It started a few years ago. Well, it really started when I first moved here, but I only found out about it a few years ago. A new family moved in next door, and I asked how they were settling in.
"Just great", the husband told me. "We've met the Ryans and the Lindstroms. Yesterday we met the Hawcos down the street."
"Curt has been introducing us around, of course. He's like a department store greeter," The wife said.
Curt?
"Yes, you know. Lives across the street in the yellow house. So friendly."
Yes, I knew Curt. I just didn't get it. I'd been living on the street for eight years and he had never spoken more than two words to me. His wife Peggy was very friendly, and always stopped for a chat when we met. His kids played with my kids. I just thought he wasn't a people person.
I asked my husband about it.
"Curt? Yeah, he's friendly enough. I run into him at the store or the mailboxes and we shoot the breeze."
That's when I started watching him. I watched him stop on the street to talk to the neighbours. I watched him help the Johnstons shovel their walk. I watched him knock on the Lindstrom's door and chat for fifteen minutes. I passed him on the sidewalk three times that week. Nothing. No smile, no nod. He didn't even make eye contact.
I watched him on the days he brought his kids to the bus. He talked with the other parents, but when I entered the conversation he talked around me, never to me. No one else seemed to notice. On the days we were there alone he wouldn't speak. I wondered if I should try to talk to him, show him I was friendly. Show him I was nice. Making eye contact was difficult. He turned his back to me.
One day I spotted him at the mail boxes. This was it. There was no way he could avoid me. I said good morning in my friendliest tone.
"Hello, Dear," he said, and walked away. No warmth. No smile.
Since then he has gone out of his way to ignore me. He crosses the street when he sees me coming.
Everyone likes me. Everyone thinks I'm nice. So I really need to know.
What has he figured out?
Friday, November 13, 2009
Downtown - The Shop Keeper
This is the second story in my Downtown series.
The Shop Keeper
She arrived every Thursday at exactly eleven forty-five. He watched and waited until he could see her through the window, then busied himself behind the counter until he heard the door chime.
He greeted her as always with a shy smile and immediately got down to business, not knowing what else to say. They looked at her wares, fine handbags made with colourful fabrics, and discussed the quality of her work. He could see her in each one of her creations, in the materials she chose, in the perfect stitching.
She took her payment and lingered expectantly, until he said goodbye.
He kept his eyes on the door until she was out of sight, and began again to count the hours until next Thursday.
The Shop Keeper
She arrived every Thursday at exactly eleven forty-five. He watched and waited until he could see her through the window, then busied himself behind the counter until he heard the door chime.
He greeted her as always with a shy smile and immediately got down to business, not knowing what else to say. They looked at her wares, fine handbags made with colourful fabrics, and discussed the quality of her work. He could see her in each one of her creations, in the materials she chose, in the perfect stitching.
She took her payment and lingered expectantly, until he said goodbye.
He kept his eyes on the door until she was out of sight, and began again to count the hours until next Thursday.
Friday, November 06, 2009
Downtown - The Reader
This is the first in a collection of short, short stories inspired by people I see downtown.
The Reader
He sits on that stone wall near the green downtown, oblivious to the rush of the city around him. Next to him, a stack of old books, dog eared and stained – volumes of poetry, adventure, philosophy and love – his wealth of knowledge. His dirty grey beard trembles as he mouths the words, passages he knows by heart. He licks his thumb and turns the page with great care, each page precious, each word a treasure. Every truth exists between the title and the end.
Exactly at five he takes his companions and places them in a tattered bag with the few other things he calls his own. Clutching his belongings to his chest, he makes his way down Water Street to a place with better light.
The Reader
He sits on that stone wall near the green downtown, oblivious to the rush of the city around him. Next to him, a stack of old books, dog eared and stained – volumes of poetry, adventure, philosophy and love – his wealth of knowledge. His dirty grey beard trembles as he mouths the words, passages he knows by heart. He licks his thumb and turns the page with great care, each page precious, each word a treasure. Every truth exists between the title and the end.
Exactly at five he takes his companions and places them in a tattered bag with the few other things he calls his own. Clutching his belongings to his chest, he makes his way down Water Street to a place with better light.
Monday, November 02, 2009
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