A Thought

I have always been told I am "Pretty cute" or "Pretty pretty."
And I have been told "You're pretty but..." and then have them drift off without finishing their thought.
As I grew up I always wondered why it was just "Cute" or "pretty".
Why was the glass so close to being full, but so far away?
Why wasn't no matter what I did make a person say I was something rather than partially something?
I still don't know.
And I probably won't.

The Little Mud in Life

When she was young, she tied her hair up away from her face.
His hair was trimmed but messy as he ran through the field with his friends.
She carried a colouring book to the swings, laughing with her older sister.
As she tried matching the blue sky to her picture, her sister pushed her gently.
He was slipping in the mud and yelling at his mates, screaming with joy.
But he slipped too close to the swings, and kicked up some mud onto her.
Her white stocking were wrecked, and the picture she worked on wasn't able to be seen.
Her sister started yelling,
He tried to apologize,
She didn't say anything,
and then the bell rang.
All the students scurried inside, trying not to be late.
But the boy stayed behind to try to wipe the mud off the swing.
The girl wasn't angry, just embarrassed that she was so dirty.
She was sent to the washroom to clean up, but on her way she saw through the window that the boy was using his water bottle to clear the mud from the swings.
She blinked a few times before walking into the bathroom.  She opened the closet full of cleaning supplies and grabbed the bucket and sponge.
She filled it up with soap and some water, but when she got to the swings there was no sight of him.
When she was about to turn away, she heard a slapping noise behind her.  To her feet were a pair of mucky black running shoes.  Her confusion was short, because after she saw them, she looked up.  At the top of the swing set was the boy, and in his hand was one of his socks as he was scrubbing the post.
She called for him to come down, but he resisted.
Finally, she soaked the sponge and threw it at him.  A squishy splat echoed in the air, and a large, oval, damp shape cloaked his navy t-shirt.
He was stunned for a moment, and both the boy and girl watched the sponge squish back onto the gravel.
He hopped down, and asked her what she was doing out of class.
She didn't speak, but pulled falling strands away from her eyes.  She reached down for the sponge and began cleaning his runners.
They didn't speak for a while, but cleaned the mess around them.
He put on his shoes bare-footed as she tried getting the mud out of her stockings.
And when they walked into the school again, they went into their own classrooms.
They didn't see each other again, for he played soccer when he was older while she drew.
But when they passed each other, he thought of her ruined stockings while she thought of his shoes.
And they went their ways.

Matthew

I first met this boy when I was living in the tiny shack that my mum excused for a house.  This house had one hallway when you open the sliding glass door to the very minimal space meant for a living room couch.  I guess it was more like an in ground trailer.

     The living room had somehow managed to fit an under stuffed deep red plaid couch that had frayed holes along the arms.  And if you stood behind the couch, you were already one step from the kitchen.  It held a mini fridge and a toaster oven.  And that was how we cooked.  

     But of course I didn't care then.  I was a six year old little girl who simply adored sprinting up and down the single hall way.  The single hallway that lead to two rooms.  As you walked down the narrow ply wood hall, to the left was the snug office.  Surrounded by a book shelf that lined the entire room, and was stuffed with a book in every space.  On the furthest side a desk was placed, taking up half the room.  As well as an overly large plush leather swirly chair.  

     I used to play simple games on the computer that lay evenly on the desk.  

     And if you walked to the end of the hall, you would enter the bedroom.  The single bedroom that held my mum and I.  I slept with her for the longest time, because we only had the single queen bed.  But as I grew old enough to be considered a woman, we sold the queen for two single beds. 

     I first met this boy when I was whirling in circles in the office.  The computer had gone to sleep and as I spun around, making myself sickly ill, I caught a glimpse of a boy's hair behind me in the reflection.  I tumbled out of the chair, toppling it over with fear.  I became scared, paranoid of what I had seen.  I hadn't truly seen someone, it was a trick of the light.  

     But as I fixed the chair and turned around, I practically ran into a boy who was a head taller than me, with sandy brown hair tousled in front of his hazel eyes.  He grinned then, pulling me into a tight hug, sighing with relief as he smelled my hair.  At that moment I couldn't figure out why someone would love the smell of apple so much, but today I could understand why.  

    He pulled away with me still in shock.  From closer up I could see he was a few years older than me.  He looked as though he was nine or ten years old.  He was very lanky, no muscle anywhere.  No fat either.  And he had high cheekbones that lifted as he smiled.

     "Danny!"  His voice was still quite high, but excitement laced through my name as he stared in disbelief.   I felt so confused as to who this boy was.  A neighbour?  A school chum I hadn't taken into consideration?  "Oh Danny, I'm so glad to finally meet you."  At this point fear struck through me that I didn't know him.  And that I never did.  I started to call for my mum, but as I did his eyes widened and he ran out of the room.  I sprinted after him, down the single hall and into the living room.  No door was open, nor window, so I knew he couldn't have left. 

    But as my mum came rushing in with soil on her knees and daisies in her grip,  there was no sign of him.  I told her what had happened, but she laughed and told me my imagination sure was wild. 

     But he was real.  I knew because he came again.  

     I wasn't as frightened, but I was still fearful of who this boy was. 

     As he kept coming, we would go outside into the forest surrounding the trailer and pretend to be professional archers.  Or we'd play hide and go seek until the stars shone our way.  Every time we'd play together, he would never come into my house when my mum was making tea or serving a meal. He told me he didn't want to intrude because she seemed like such a lovely lady.  Of what I told him about her.  I told my mum everything, and finally she asked his name. 

     "Matthew."  I would say proudly. 

     But my mom wouldn't smile at that.  Instead she would frown dubiously, turn back to the kettle or onions she would satee,   Never asking about him. 

     We became best friends as a few years went on.  We both were growing, and soon I was in middle school.  My mum didn't believe that this boy existed.  Every time I would promise he would come over this time, he cancelled and ran home.   We made a rule not to enter each others homes, that our home would be outside.  Together. 

     As soon as I'd get home from school I'd drop my bag and sprint out to the backyard.  There on the same chopped stump would sit Matty, and we would go off on our adventures. 

     It became ours.

     As we grew older, Matthew became quite tall.  He held the same shaggy hair that he had when I first met him, and the same stunning hazel eyes.   He did get more muscular, but thinly so.  I became jealous of his body as mine became curvier, but he would always reassure me it looked better than fine.  That it was perfect.  And not to take any crap from any girl or guy.  

     We didn't go to the same school.  His parents home schooled him, he would say.  And I was fine with that.  We saw each other plenty.  

     But whenever I would bring home some friends, I would check the stump and he wouldn't be there.  He wouldn't come out when I had company, he always said how he would be intruding.  Wrecking something so beautiful.  

     I told him he wouldn't be wrecking something beautiful because he was beautiful. 

     And I remember as we sat under the canopy of trees, he stared at me with a melancholy laced in his iris's.  It made me sad.  It made me want to know what was wrong. 

     But he barely spoke of himself.  He would let me talk about my petty issues with guys, and grades.  Eventually it became normal that we didn't talk about him.  

     It was like I was the main character of his book. 

     But as high school ended, he asked me what I would do now.  

     And I told him about the boy who asked me to move away with him. 

     And I saw the pride grow like a fire in his smile. 

     And I felt his love as he pulled me into his arms. 

     And I felt heartbroken when he pulled away

     and I saw something flicker. 

     Him. 

     He stared at me expectantly. 

     "Danielle,"  He started, "I didn't want to come over, but I think I should now.  I think I should."

     He gripped my hands almost as though he was pleading, but without hesitation I said of course.  And we went into the tiny cramped living space.  And as my mum came home with dirt on her face she smiled at me and sat so close to Matty that I thought she'd sit on him.  I gasped, fearful for a moment, but Matthew turned and grinned. 

     "Don't worry Danny."

     My mum leaned over and kissed my cheek, and I realised what was happening. 

     She was ignoring Matty. 

     But, she wasn't.

     She didn't see Matty. 

     Terror sliced through me, and I stood up suddenly, rushing myself for air. 

     Matthew raced out after me, grabbing my arm to stop me. 

     "Danny, I'm sorry!"  His eyes plead, waiting for me to say something. 

     "What's going on Matt, what the Hell was that?"  He winced at my words, but I had given him what he wanted;

      my voice.

      I trembled as he spoke fluidly. 

      "I love you and your mother so very much, Danny.  You need to know that.  And I am so absolutely proud of you for how far you've come."  His eyes were swelling with tears.  "And I'm so glad to see your bright future.  Please.  Please remember you have a brilliant future."  Confusion shuffled through me.  "Danny,"  He took a deep breath, "I'm your brother."  I was about to speak but he cut me off, "--Danny, mum had a miscarriage before she had you.  Several years before she even wanted to try again.  And daddy?  He left when he thought mum wouldn't get pregnant.  She found out she was with you three days after daddy left."  His face was faltering, "I wanted to grow up with you, so I waited here for you.  you have a life Danny."  I was shaking, crying with upset.  Disbelief. 

    "Matty, no.  No no no."  I was shaking my head aggressively, "No!  You're real, I'm touching you now!"  He looked down at his hands and he smiled sadly. 

     "That's because you saw me when we were so young.  You got used to me.  I'm so sorry Danny.  But I love you so incredibly much.  And I am so proud of you.  I want to watch you get married and have children, but I can't."  Pain flashed through his eyes, "Every moment I stay longer, it hurts Danny.  It hurts so much."  

     He was fading, in and out.  I hugged him tightly, feeling the fabric of his shirt disappear through my fingers. 

     "Matty, oh Matty I'm so proud of you too.  I never thought I could love someone as I do you.  You are the most incredible person I have met, and I owe so much to you.  I won't let you down, Matty.  I owe you so much.  So... so much."  My sobs were clouding my speech, and I shut my eyes tightly.  

     I don't know how long I sat there, but after a while I heard the door slide open, my mum coming over and rubbing my back. 

     "You okay, sweetie?"  I nodded numbly. 

     

I dream of him often.  And I still love him as I hold my son in my arms.  I still love him as I hold the hand of my husband.  I still love him. 

     

     Matthew, I regret that we didn't get to have a life together, but every time I feel a pressure on my hand I want you to know that I think of you.  I think of you watching me grow up and even though I'm still so much a child, I love you no matter what.  I love you Matthew.  

The 'Love' Bite

I remember seeing my grandmother's cat for the first time. 
Big Red.
What a scary name.
But she was so beautiful.  With thick orange fur that kissed her emerald eyes gently.  The way she strutted through the large wooden house with pride made me want her to love me.
So I wanted to pet her, love her, kiss her, hug her.
But when I asked my grandmother about the cat, she told me not to chase or bother her because she wasn't a friendly cat.
But I was young.
That isn't an excuse now, but I was just so curious.
Wanting an animal to love me.
So when my grandmother was in the garden I set out to find Red.
Once I found her in the kitchen I started running at her.
Of course she ran.
Into the living room.  I finally caught her though, feeling my tiny hands fold into her thick fur.
And then it was like a scene from jaws.
Her head turned sideways, her mouth seemed to unhinge, and she submerged her fangs  between my left eye and temple.
I dropped her.
Not from the pain, but from fear of what my grandmother would do.
I was scared she'd be angry.
I disobeyed her.
I just wanted to love the kitten.
So I sprinted upstairs into the bathroom with tears down my cheeks.
I looked in the mirror in horror.
Blood was gushing from my face, no matter how many tissues I used it wouldn't stop.
My grandmother knocked on the door after a while asking if I was alright.
I told her I would be out in a minute.
So me.
Thinking oh so cleverly.
Plastered tissue to the side of my face.
And walked out of the bathroom.
My grandmother of course instantly asked what happened, and I told her about Red.
She hugged me then.
Which startled me.
And she took me to the doctors.
I had to take pills to make sure it didn't get infected or anything.
And that was that.
It took weeks to heal.
But me and that cat...
We're on good terms now.
Sometimes if I'm lucky, she'll let me pet her.
Sometimes, if I'm really lucky, she'll lay in my lap.
She's a good cat.
I was just a bad child.

It was April 27th of this year when I knew I had cancer.
I didn't go to the doctor, or feel a lump or anything.  But the day was just so... different.  Lethargic.  Painful to think.  As though my body couldn't focus on anything except the creeping agony that I couldn't feel yet.
And all I remember doing that day was blinking.
How every time I closed my eyes, it felt as though a lifetime surged through me, creating, well...me.
I didn't go to the doctor right away.
I scanned my body, did all the feeling tests.  Which was weird, because I had never felt my body so much before.  It was like disturbing sacred land. I was trying to comprehend why I was suddenly so panicked when no one in my family had cancer.
There was no reason to be frightened.
"I'm overreacting."
Was what I kept saying every time I didn't feel a lump.
"There's nothing wrong."
Was what I tried saying when I forced myself to breathe.

I never found anything.

But the doctors I went to did.

They found it in my ovaries.

They told me I wouldn't have blood-related kids.

They told me they were sorry.

They told me about the surgeries.

About the Chemo.

About the pain.

About the life altering chaos I was about to go through.

And when they walked out of the door, they muttered to each other, "She's barely twenty.  Her loss must be difficult."

And all I thought was how dare they.
How dare they try to even comprehend the thought of being unable to carry something that was going to mean the world to them.  Because that new life would be my world.
But in a moment, it was gone.
And I had never, ever in my entire life feel so ripped off.
So angry.
So betrayed.

I didn't pray that night.

I showered.

And cried.

And tumbled into my unkempt bed.

And I slept.

Chemo was expensive.  I was in college, far away from family.  They were supportive, sad.
But I felt anger.
Resentment to them.
Because they pitied me.
I felt like kicked dog on the side of an abandoned road.
And I wanted to scream at them.
That they didn't understand.

But they asked me what made me go seek help.  I told them I didn't feel right.

"Was it a lump?"  They would ask.

"Did it hurt when you weren't menstruating?"  They would prod.

"Did something show you something was wrong?"  They would pick.

And I gave them the same answer.

I felt different.

 I went for a check up.

I got the news.

I wanted to die.

Not from Cancer.  But that fucking thing can go kiss my ass.  It should be easy as it's kissed my ovaries. 

I wanted to die in a different way.  By a car accident, heart attack, falling asleep and never waking up.

But now I'm going to die. 

I caught it a while ago,  so they can only slow the cancer.  Not stop it.  

"Three years max."  The doctors said mournfully.  As though I had already died.

I felt dead inside, so I guess that's the same thing.

I stopped doing things I enjoyed. 

I used to ride my bike by the ocean every day.  Twice. 

I didn't have the strength to anymore.

I used to photograph people at their happiest.

I threw my camera against my bedroom wall.

I tore shelves down in my room. 

I stabbed scissors into the wall.

I never went more than one day without crying.

I always cried until I fell asleep.

That was what I was like for  a year. 

It felt excruciating.

I lost my hair.  I used to wear a wig because I felt embarrassed, but I stopped and started wearing a toque. 

I missed my hair a lot.  It wasn't very long, I was always called a lesbian for having a pixie cut.

But I loved it. 

It was a subtle mouse brown that somehow managed to make me look like a rock star every day without doing anything to it. 

I didn't have to shave my legs or anything anymore though. 
That didn't suck. 
It sucked because it reminded me that I was dying.
And my insides were screwed.

But I went to the doctor almost every day for two and a half years.

At this point, I was on edge daily. 
Not angry, just anxious.

Like, I knew I was going to die any day now.

But I didn't.

In three years I was still alive.

And I felt so much hope well inside of me that I thought I was going to burst.

I think I did burst actually.

In tears.

The doctors didn't know what to say. 

I still didn't have any hair, but I strutted with my bald head high. 

I felt amazing.

I even fell in love.

He was amazing.

He knew what I was going through, but stayed with me. 

He wanted us to get married, have children--
Which he knew we would have to adopt.

But he didn't care.

We were in love.

We travelled all around Europe.

We moved to Paris. 

I became fluent in french.

We had an apartment.

We walked down the river ways.

We were in a book.









But, my book ended five years after I had been diagnosed with Cancer. 

I was twenty four when I died holding my husband's hand.

I was twenty four when I had so much cancer in me, that I could have killed twenty other people.

I was twenty four when my little girl had to kiss her mother goodbye. 

I was twenty four when my life ended.

James

The morning where the rain wasn't falling.
The air that didn't hold a tinge of guilt.
All came whirling when I looked at my reflection.
The splotchy skin.
The red eyes.
The way that hiccups still escaped my sobbing mouth.
But I looked into the mirror and saw my large forehead. How the thin, oily strands of hair clung around my ears. But in the cold green eyes, I saw something someone told me about.
I think the word was, adventitious.
I hadn't heard that word before he had said it. That's why it stuck.
He was holding me. We were arguing before he grabbed my wrist. The wrist that was attached to the hand I was going to slap him with. Because he told me I was 'Too damn adventitious.'
And I thought that was a bad thing. In his context, it was.
But to be a person to go with the flow of things...
That's a good character.
And as I was huffing, and he was fuming, his grip released and I started laughing.
It wasn't the tiny giggles that bubble out from a child's' throat when they find something cute. Oh no. It was the laughter that was so obnoxiously loud that startled both of us.
It sounds like an odd memory. And you may ask why I like it so much.
Because after I stopped laughing, his face froze.
And my breathing stopped.
I wasn't scared.
I was...
Adventitious.
Because I let him kiss me.
And then I let him kiss me again.
And again.
He held me then. His hands gripping my waist, pulling me closer as I laced my shaken hands through his silky brown hair.
I never felt so light until it happened.
We practically fell down the beach steps, crashing into the sand in a fit of the childish giggles.
James.

Seven months ago.
And here I stand in front of my mirror. Greasy brown hair and puffy eyes.

I dreamt of him.
Again.
It was the memory of us fighting again.
But this time I truly did slap him.
And he never spoke to me again.
But as he was rushing off in a fit of rage, he turned onto the road. Screaming at me.
"It's okay for control, Abbi. But don't always follow the way of life. Do something to manipulate it."
Because then he stands there with tears in his eyes.
He's trying to help.
And I see the way the light of the setting sun falls onto his side. How it reflects into his eyes and bloody Hell, he catches me out of breath.
And he steps forward.
Five steps from the sidewalk.
Four.
Three.

But the light on his side isn't from the deep reds of the sun.
It's his blood. Seeping through his shirt.
And he knew.

I woke up then. Before he could fall to the road.
That's how I woke up sobbing.
I think I was crying during the dream too.
I think I knew.

Seven months ago, my James died.
The James who taught me control, freedom and love.
My James. Who woke up at four in the morning, would jog all the way to my front yard (which was well over 10 miles) and bring me coffee so we could drink it and go for another run.
My James. Who showed me how to surf.
Who I punched in the eye because he was such a jack ass.
Who I kissed one thousand times because he was so sincere.

My James. Who was hit by a car while we were walking home after the best surf of the year.
Who never ran with me again.
Who never cried with me when my father passed away.
Or screamed with utter joy when my sister walked across her Ballet performance for the Black Swan.

My James. Who I loved so heartachingly. So wholefully.

So I stand in front of my mirror without his lips caressing my shoulder.
With my dirty hair and sullen eyes.

And I bring the cold water onto my face.

My body burning from the sadness revolting within me.

And I breathe.

Because James isn't breathing right now.

And I want to breathe for him.

A Little Star

Through the sea of injustice, the galaxies above, 
there is that one star you love.
Through the clouds of fog, and thick rainy nights
you love it even when out of your sight.
Because of the glow
The humor
The grin
It gives you.
It's your little star
that lights up your night.