Post-Humorous Breakups

So I ended my poetic triumph by claiming :
“If you do not want my love, then take steady with no affection at all!”
Denying at any rate the childishness of this scheme. I warn you not to expose me. It is an assault on my senses.

To ask to consider a proper proposal of a communion, a compromise, a well laid defeat  – well sir, I only come with a single mind, no better or worse for your fanfare. Fortunately for me, no such tug-a-war of strife or vexing mechanism of human indecision bothers me to such degree of high entity. I am as ridiculous as proportions tends to go, with no intention of withdrawing my forces. “Selfish to the very end, Miss Scarlett O’Hara!” Then so it be dear friend, and let me make a remarkable mark on this world. A boot to the end.

And that is my plan thus far. No, it has not gone too far, but I know within these short, stamped sentences, were the precise moments when you fell in love with me.

** I found this as one of my drafts from some months ago last year. Funny to read your own words and scarcely recognize where you could have gotten them from. I somewhat laugh and admire my overdone belligerence. Having drowned myself steadily in red wine and old comedic Chinese movies, I’d say this self-denial stage of post-break up is heaving itself along.


“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a tellar but for want of an understanding ear.”- Stephen King




A picture of yourself is like a version of who you think you are.


This is me. 

I’ve had a lot of trouble trying to explain and prove to myself who I am. Sometimes it’s even hard to tell ourselves who we think we are. Being to me, has at this moment left me speechless. I’ve spent a great deal of time telling myself that people are like nuclei; you’ve got to be a whole, fully functioning member with a semi-permissible membrane in order to co-exist in a relationship of any level. The center being the DNA, the declaration of your distinct separation. To ensure you’ve got all your gathering around you to make this sense of being continue to tick, it can’t collapse with any other atoms out there.

I’m at a point in my romantic relationship that it seems my defensive membranes have collapsed. And there is no way to go about this without getting side tracked because when you talk emotions, you talk about this whole spectrum. Talking about yourself, especially to an anonymous internet audience, makes you want to explain yourself. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe that’s just another part of me that wants you to think you know who I am when I don’t.

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I am sexual. I am sensual. I am free.
These sketches were some of my favorites in my pastime to create something aesthetic with my own hands – like metaphorically it would help me add that onto myself. That idea hasn’t quite caught, but they at the least serve to speak without words.

In my previous post, I spoke about how debilitating it may be for someone you’re in a romantic relationship with recommend you to see a therapist. It’s not the intention that is offensive, but the certain underlay tone of writing off somebody because you simply don’t know how to help them. This happens for a lot of people I’ve known. It is certainly difficult to be in a faultless and seemingly helpless situation with someone who is most apparently asking you for help, but has no way to offer instructions. A small part of me was devastated that the consistent stigma with therapeutic counselling appeared convincingly in my mind to strip away my sexuality.

For many women out there, our sexuality has been throughout history decidedly been our favorable contingency. My sexuality was something that I have harvested and come to embrace significantly overtime. It was something that I could offer, rather than the only thing. A part of me that I saw beauty in. And that would appeal to only a specific part because in the midst of trying to figure out who I am, I found that I am also still the me who found herself laying the same old scar atop another. Rocking on my heels and trying to catch that breath. Red. No one tells you how guilty you feel, not when you’re trying to ask for help – not looking in your mother’s eyes, trying to explain unfathomable thoughts of how much you have always thought yourself as ugly. Ugly in a pungent deep unseated root feeling of unease and of being soiled. I watched her tear up because she couldn’t begin to understand how long standing these ideas had been in my head and a dull thought relayed itself to me that I really should not be thinking like this.

That these two sides could find a place within me is baffling to be sure. Then I picked up a book at a local Indigo and read in the summary that women today are taught since young that they need to suppress their anger and desires, particularly to learn to abhor the signal of a hysteric. That 1 in 4 tries to quell their innate oscillation of emotions with prescription medication (also another subject I had touched on) when really we should be empowered by this empathetic ability. I think about this now while trying to digest the decision I’ve come to this evening about ending my relationship and ask myself whether I am making the right choice. So caught up in the delivery, I’m afraid I won’t have the guts to stand up to them should he challenge it – if that’s even what I would want.

And perhaps to a lot of you out there, this is a small thing. Certainly it hasn’t been all that long, and with another issue, not that serious. I look at myself and kind of don’t know what I see when we’ve been told and taught so many ways to look at things. I took a peak into my phone photos and see the many pictures I had taken of him just a few days prior and interrogate myself unfairly again whether I am really out of giving second chances. Whether I’m really just scared to be myself again; when you’re not being brave or happy or attempt to be beautiful for somebody else. Perhaps another innate born syndrome we’ve specially developed was this rather dumb martyrdom reasoning to only feel good and be capable on behalf of others. As if it isn’t time we ought to have developed a better sense of self.

In talking to my mom she said, You obviously like this man more than he likes you, and you have tried to give yourself to him, and if he won’t take it then it’s his loss. But Sarah, listen to this, your emotions towards him is a beautiful thing, it means you have a big heart, and there is absolutely nothing to be at loss for in that particular sense.”

Strictly speaking because she is my mom, I will believe her and see the beauty in that. And I do. I have loved every minute of caring for someone else and thinking of how to surprise them next and make them feel special. I plan gifts to the lengths where my girlfriends suggest I be their boyfriend instead because whoever this guy is, he must be fucking lucky. I guess he was.

Within reason, I know I will be okay. As all things pass, this too shall pass. In the meanwhile, I guess I’ll figure it out somehow, get back to myself again.

Cat Cafe + Pill Talk

Cat CafePeople have always said there was something about animal companionship that made life a little easier. Nothing like coming home, or staying home entirely for that matter, and just allowing yourself to be coveted into a fur infested feline pillow. Watching how utterly satisfied they are with their lot in life, to be an North American house cat – life doesn’t get much better than that after all. That said, my sister decided to take us out to the Vancouver Cat Cafe that has just recently re-opened its door since it had been looted of all it’s resident cats from hopelessly disturbed cat adopters. Sick.

Now I realize those who have known me previously here would be entirely too familiar with the ways of my, not one, but two fat asses I call my one and only. As I am typing this at work, I cannot supply you with hilariously inappropriate photos, though I hope you feel the tickling of my perverseness through the screen. And I may be laying it on thick right now with the sarcasm, with due understanding you see – when you’ve suffered through an in-explainable week of nervous break downs you sort of got to belly flop your way in the day to day stuff to get by. Granted, I’ve caught myself clutching my jeans, meaning to be dressed, while being rocked by a sudden onslaught of self loathe and tears. So in that respect, I think I have outdone myself in unreasonable douchebaggery.

Probably this whole style of self-denying narration delves into the many, plethora and myriads of problems in my human psyche…but we’ll keep it simple.

I guess I have a problem (yes, I will stick with my denial if it’ll make things easier). But so does everybody else in this damn bloggosphere – like why else are we here? What, you’ve got friends outside? So how do we dignify my abominable possible OCD with your loner aspect? I suppose you can’t. And I should stop thinking so much. Easy fixes and all. That’s where I was headed when I was talking to my sister over dinner about headed to the clinic and asking for a referral (as most suggested by a lot of people I know) or being prescribed (more opt for by myself) some on-the-leash medication to stop myself from being entirely too ir-radical in times when logic escapes you. My argument being it’s not fun to lash out with my accelerated over-concerness for things that are blown out of proportion with my invisible dialogues to people I actually care about. And if self-loathe was one of those things I’ve secretly been hoarding underneath my comfortable feline ass then expect the mental self beating I will give myself when logic returns.

The arguments against these medications are old though. I, myself, had written an essay about it back in high school more or less saying it was a useless sense of government approved escapism. My sister had personally been in a 3 year relationship with a guy who was on anti-depression medication and when this guy tried to cut down his doses, things went bad. I was only 14 at this time so I don’t know the full details, but I appreciate her saying she wouldn’t want to see me become like that. Drugs are addictive in the end and we are addictive beings. I get it. But let me just cut to the chase and say this: it is a fair amount devastating to have the most intimate people in your life tell you that you need/should go talk to someone – i.e a therapist. 6 1/2 years counselling took over my life in school. I’m not complaining, I’m sure it’s pulled me through a lot of stuff. But if the fear for drug reliance is evident, it should be noted that so is the goddamn dependency of an audience all your life. I am afraid of my own thoughts when things get too quiet – that’s my problem, and a lot of other people’s too. Now that I’ve spent almost 2 years outside this realm of counselling or therapy or any sort of help in my mental health I find myself entirely too reluctant to go back.

I quote my pride when I think about how badly I had clawed my way out of there. It’s not that it was bad, but social stigma will be what it is and even if I’ve been there before, nobody wants to take a look and subjugate themselves to people probing your minds again. It’s a humility thing, and I’ve lost that particularly streak of it. It’s the part where you try to hold yourself together and explain things you can’t explain in your own head; things that require a back ground of inner thoughts nobody else could ever guess.

My sister says everybody is just trying to help.

It’s hard not to get worked up talking about it. For the moment I’ve just been digging up on all my old books again – the ones that have stared at me while I slept every night. All my self-development, self-imagery, success minding and etc books. Things I thought I could oh so easily put behind me after the first grueling year of being on my own. It’s not permanent. Things still get to me on a minute to hour basis and it’s hard but I try. Try harder to believe that people will know I’m trying without having to be obedient as a mull or over compensating for my week-long sulliness with undue extremities of happy.

Mostly it’s probably just my pride again, sauntering its way into my happy-go-lucky attitude telling people (mostly myself) that I’m okay. My partner says he’s worried about me. I suppose when someone you’ve only known 3 months unleashes 10 years worth of self-destructing thoughts, you tend to get a bit winded about their sanity.

And just like that, I’ve ran out of words again.

Tonight when I return home, I’ll simply be eternally grateful for my two cats. Just for the soft purring, the sweet warmth of their paws. Their undeniable impressionable face that tells you how little they think of you. All great. Things that should further occupy my mind than anything else, that seems like the best therapy.

The Concept of Kindness


Getting these words for this post really began in the twilight dawn of a vertical hang over that strictly forbade me sleep for a solid good two hours. I suppose I was so out of it that even having dreamed of a freaky ghost story did not sober me up as it would usually.

It’s a stupid thing to get drunk at the bar and not handle your liquor too well. Before this year I have never understood what it is about alcohol that drew people to them. I saw it as an escapism, I judged people who could not speak their mind without some liquid courage. I believed in owning your words with a clear conscious and whatever may be from them may be. Except I didn’t do that last night. I spent those long dawn hours thinking of what I could have done instead and what to do here on out. To be clear guys, I fucked up.

I realized a few things from waking up to watch the Mindy Project on my phone (yes, I needed a pick me up) – that it wasn’t the concept of losing somebody that scares me, it was the concept of not having fulfilled this sense of fullness in my life that I have most likely imposed on myself. Perhaps it doesn’t make much sense from the get go. Many people remind me that I am young and that it takes time to grow into ourselves. They look at how far I’ve come in my living situation to my work front and my friends that I am doing well for myself. Maybe this is the part of me that wants more than that – it’s just that I’ve been single-handedly spearheading to find my own place and do the very things that people did not believe I could do, it gets a little lonely. No, I am not alone. I spent the morning talking to the very two friends who had to witness me throw up from a cab and pay the driver double the amount for me to get home safely. To be fair to their wasted money, I threw up in the cab too. Classy. I am not alone, but the feeling of loneliness is something different.

This isn’t really the part that I fucked up on though. You see, I’m probably just running around in circles again. Things made so much more sense in my semi-conscious mind while I was up in the vertical. What had I wanted to say was that I let my demon out again, and with her, alcohol just makes her tongue that much sharper. It wrecks all filters that I would otherwise put up and rationality to even put effort into stopping myself from blaming the person I am seeing. People ask me if I am happy, my mother particularly is concerned to be sure I am happy with this person. I feel I am happy, though I feel that I don’t allow myself to be happy.

To paraphrase this as I had to with my friends: when someone gifts you a beautifully aesthetic ceramic art piece, it’s brightly glazed and smoothly hardened. When you glance at the beautiful craftsmanship and the delicacy of care put into it’s design, the artist then tells you of its resiliency too, which is suppose to add to its value. And just because it is so beautiful and because they say it won’t break, what do you do but to drop it and see for yourself. Perhaps the first time it won’t. Doesn’t even hold a scratch. Then the second time it doesn’t either. But then the third puts a crack, or a dent, or an imprint of your crazy anxiety and the fourth may just rip it all apart.

Now I may be melodramatic, because this man has proven to me throughout all the times I have had my freak outs that it has never touched him the same way morality wrecks me. Things supposedly slide from his plate from today onto the next day; a clean slate. In the same way that I am grateful for this easygoing attitude in life, I can’t help but defeat myself in matters which concern my trust towards himself in relation to me. I sit there and wonder where it is that I have gone wrong, where it was that made me so anxiety driven to start conjuring up nonsense in my head again. Aren’t there suppose to be any warning signs to tell you that you have gone off the rails again and that this is all in your head? How do you stop hurting somebody else to hurt yourself?

My girlfriend tells me that maybe I should just be single for awhile. My guy friend asked me something I could not answer but want to know about : So, why do you think you keep breaking it?

I suppose I don’t understand the concept of kindness. Nor do I see myself in the warmth of trust and dependency. It’s not that I don’t want to, but it would appear in these recent cases my body literally and mentally revolts against it altogether. Of course I would love to have a partner to trust and confide in. In all honestly, neither ends scare me that much to think that he would leave me. After having been hit on on multiple occasions by guys in non-drunken states (to declare formally), at the very least for now, my sense of erotic validity is confirmed. Leave that as it may. I suppose it isn’t a big deal in the long run of things, I mean that’s why I’ve always told myself I was in the scene for – the long run – anything else was a waste of my time and money. Yet I can’t seem to keep my shit together if we don’t see each other in a week, or bring myself to feel that I haven’t taken away from any of his happiness in taking his time. And as all of these things whirl wind together in my head, to make it go away all that I have to confess is that I have been very happy with this person, and he has been kind to me, and for whatever the turn out this time, I have been happy. That’s the catch though, it’s only not scary when you don’t believe there is hope at hand and you simply let things fall as they may. What of when you’re in the middle of battling for things and you want to win? Fuck if I know.

He did keep his words from last night though, he texted me goodnight though he hung up on me earlier that evening. All I thought about as I stumbled out of my drunken steaming shower was that I was thankful he kept that part of my trust. Brittle as it may be.


So my mom says she was proposed to.

There’s really no formal way to answer that. Whether I am happy about the matter seems almost beyond the point. Perhaps it was a pivot point for her, for myself as well, evidently having no qualms in robbing this piece of news and wrapping it about myself like an ill fitting bathrobe. But a pivot point for her nonetheless. For people out there who may have haphazard stitched families, the run of the mill 5th marriage parents, this is not even worthy news to you. If I were to add to the equation that there were step children (aka siblings) involved, that’s when things get chaotic. Until then, I really don’t have the right to bitch. Luckily, this man has been a single bachelor his whole life.

My mom has been a widow for almost 9 years now. She’s a young woman. Not even in her 50’s. Somewhere inside me I wish I had the capacity to feel joy and such but somehow it seems the most viable emotion up for calling was just a sulking sense of …dread ? I’m sure he is not a bad man. In the 10 minute phone call we had (and I will defend her and say I was the one that had prematurely guessed the content to be ‘introduced’ to my sister and I on another more ‘appropriate’ day in person, but fuck it, I took a dirty shot and guessed it. And fuck me for getting it right.) she mentioned that he had waited for her for 6 years now – counting the first 3 years they had together as a couple, and then the last 3 years when she was with her ex. He didn’t want to wait for the 4th admittedly and proposed on the 1st of January.

Had I mention that the now former ex had been the one man out of her numerous relationships since that I had come to regard as a sort of a parental figure. At least somebody that I could bounce ideas off of, or just a willing ear to promote me further the in the world when I was tittering and feeling unsure of myself. It’s only been over a month that they had officially called it off for all parties involved – an artifact such as me, you’ll see how I am. In fact, having lunch with him tomorrow would prove to be the only man that I had reached out to when I was no longer an ‘appendage’ of my mother’s. Not to forward a familial sense of bonding, not because she decided to put the phone under my chin when he was on speaker – let’s face it, there’s really no way to get out of those ones. You gotta say hello, but damn wouldn’t I be bitter just to relinquish that one little bit of myself.

So she says she’s considering to be engaged for the remainder of the year until perhaps July, August, when the weather turns greener, finer; when it is among their birthday. Was that to condense the celebrations together? Sandwich it between something more innocent? I don’t know, maybe I’m just thinking too much about this. And I get that she will be financially stable, that she will be taken care of, with a partner (at last, hallelujah, a wedded bonded partner recognized in court for all liabilities in life), but it seems this had impended on what I had originally thought was my solar in life.

That’s probably the problem. See, figuring things out while writing them to thousands or maybe to nobody who will see, does seem to work if you just let it happen.

Yes, I had stressed periodically about her spending habits and my limitations to be able to support her when the time would come. I had secretly cursed that she’s due to live on the savings of a dead man for the rest of her life. As well that I could not get fully on board for her to get a part time job doing minimum wage because she had never really worked in Canada. In all reality I had this amazing ability to reconcile these two fantastical images of my mother together: the one that was always glamorous and wanting of new things, and the one that was pitiful to a degree in not seeing how she was in an apparent sandpit. Trickling, sinking. However spiteful I had appear, this was my job. My dealt cards in life and I dully accepted them as such. It was part of my burden to bear to worry for her and plan for her as my father had done – probably with much more finesse – but it was something that linked the two of us on the most undoubtedly visceral level yet that only came to forefront once in awhile.

I guess I feel sad, like a guide dog put out to retirement too early because their owner magically gained sight again. What to do when you’ve been trained to keep on your toes and now people tell you to relax. Oddities in life.

That said with all personal feelings against this man aside, my mother at the very least fully acknowledged that she knows I am not fond of him. It’s really too bad. I wish I was, would make this a lot easier for me – right, I can’t even get outside of the realms of how this ordeal appears to affect me hearing someone else’s marital issues. Congratulations, I mean.

It’s strange, just another instance in which I feel small again.

Prescribed : Time


A few things of note:

  1. I’ll be 20 in 3 months. Now some people have differed to say 3 months is quite a long time away and I have haughtily refuted them for their uncalled for downer comments in welcoming my supposed ‘becoming’ time in life.
  2. I’ve been culled into this thing the same people have referenced to as a relationship, and it’ll be almost 3 months now- and I have been hyperventilating to recognize it as my single longest lasting connectivity with somebody apart from my cats. Which, with full disclosure, I’d like to reveal that the experimental effects of my ‘Stockholm-Syndrome’ ideal in keeping them on house arrests has worked wonderfully. They haven’t shat in my bed since summer now. Just the new roommate on his first night in, but you know. Cats.

The important part being, I feel most gratified right now of the feline whining outside my bedroom door. Indeed, 20 will make a better woman out of me.

This is how I get through my days.

It’s cure for times when you can’t seem to get out of the sweet suction of a leather couch and the sweet sweet sighing bodies of dreaming pets on each side. My roommate had been right : I am their’s. And if only, then this whole problem with le boyfriend goes away. What is it Duck? Is it that he cooks? – yeah, god forbid somebody who makes food for a living decides to mate with the unanimously voted ‘most likely to die of ramen overdose’ upon my moving out back in the day. Or that he takes painful heeds to pick all these nice restaurants and then pays for them? Ugh.. Hideous. I loathe myself.

Perhaps to easier resolve all of this, I should say I am like Chandler in Friends. Except that my uneasiness and gutting anxiety is only in vexation against the fact that in every other aspect of life I am Monica. Let’s not kid ourselves, Chandler wouldn’t give a shit about somebody leaving the kitchen towel crumpled and wet. Crumpled and wet! My biggest pet peeve.

It isn’t really that, which we all know when we take a good look. It’s the trusting, the vulnerability, the missing and caring. Bullshit Hollywood ideas that should be shot – no, no, you’re right, I need to calm down. Sigh. It’s scary to want somebody, to want something that you seemingly do not have direct say over (man, am I showing my Monica colors). By god, it is frightening to give yourself away in this Era – like who the fuck mass produced the idea of phone outrages and superstitions? Damn you manipulative genius of the 21st century. It has worked brilliantly.

With everything that has to do with my self probing doubt and auspicious avoidance of vanity – within all human limits – my ever calculative mind spits out the only solution it can find : to assume the worst of everything.

Ultimately you just feel like you’re not trying hard enough, or the worse case thinking he’s not trying hard enough, having realistically done nothing in the first place to have caused such a spike in hostility. Then the berating force of conscience sets in, ingraining into yourself to not do this the next time, don’t cry, don’t you dare fucking cry or who’s going to believe you when you say you’ll stop? It’s like an addiction of sorts. Strangely manipulative to apologize with full earnest but to find yourself in the same mindset the week after, and then week after that. Must be exhausting.

Knowingly, I have most likely exhausted the most common and idle torment that wrecks us all. Most of you out there are probably thinking in comparison you’d be old for any grabs of pairing numbers. I have such a long way to go. The only shitty thing about anxiety and involuntary outbursts of teary caliber is just this : time. The only comfort someone could provide you with, no matter your sister, your colleague or your mom. It takes time, luv. Takes one to know one. You just have to ride the gully of what the ticking clock has to offer you, like an invisible Milky Wave we all stand by. I guess for lack of better terms, birds don’t really see the wind stream they coast on, and it doesn’t seem to do them any harm in this apparent blindness.

There, I’ve just made myself feel a little bit better with that poetic bit of avian flight. Screw all the loving people in my life telling me to just enjoy it and trust. Pfft. I abhor it, this dangerous prescription of time, I can’t get him out of my head more and more everyday. Whether I’m crying or laughing. We’ve got to face it, time has got the best of me.

The 8th.

I don’t think I have ever been fully conscious of it, in the many ways that we conveniently remake our thoughts and rewire time in our minds. In the same way I’m sure of the precise sense of deja vu that descended only once after you have crossed the threshold to behold you have thought this most likely every year. Like re-tracking an old trade route on blistered sand that has already blown over to cover the years of voyage. You feel the imprints underneath it. Today is my father’s 8th year death anniversary and along two string of conscience I thought it: it hasn’t been long enough to be far enough, but also that it has been 8 years already. I was just a little girl.

What I meant by that is probable to any other rudimentary reaction to death from a living being, to stay away from it. But because we are mammals, and civilized for the most part, we feel remorse and grief. When I watched my mother dabble at his grave stone with a single tissue paper, I knew that was the petting hand of a woman in grief. In love.

She was patting him in the hospital too back then, and she had caressed him in his wooden cradle before all the world went to hell in a big ball of fire for him. Now he’s just in a jar.

The quick, feathering motions of her dappling were completely benign of course, not against the aged dark green slab of stone with his name etched in gold. There was no dust or nothing. It was probably just primping out of anxiety but it nevertheless made me feel oddly intrusive standing aside with my arms crossed. While she mourned through chit chat; chatting with the man inside the stone as if he were still there, she appeared an amateur lieutenant. A sort of novel juvenile approach in the way she extended her neck and cocked her head forward to tell him a summary of her life. Hon, I’m going to have to get surgery for my teeth again… thank you for working so hard and leaving your savings to me…Cynthia says she’s a lot like me now, can’t help but shop…but Sarah…she’s like you..I live in a condo now….they’re both good girls. They’re grown up now. I got new furniture. My gums really hurt. I love you the most.

It really confounded me when she said that, because on the same doubling parallel, I felt the lack of space that had been put in between this ..thing, this time period, to be put behind us, or at least remote from us. I instantly thought about the month after the funeral while we were sitting in Tim Hortons when I found out my father had been a cheater.

Oh, but you forgive. We all forgive.

Does he then? Or maybe he would be bemused at this; the fact that I still cannot bring myself to speak to his grave the way my mother does. Not even in the tentative way my sister does. I almost find the actualization of it, at least to be done in person would be completely ridiculous. There really never has been any words I have wanted to say when I visit the grave site. I hadn’t felt much today either.Rather the image of a shock of birds, back lit by a 7 am morning sun from early in the day, swooshing somewhere above my head out of reach from the sounds of my plugged earphones caught me as something beautiful. Momentarily ethereal. Mostly because it was partially blinding. Senses heightened. I even took notice of the old couple at the station; the man in a courteous, charming and silly cowboy hat of sorts, pecking his wife on the cheek. It was 7:28 am and I thought of my mom. The wife walking the other way had short brown hair, striped with gold. Not sun bleached but the product of human intervention. And my poor mother, that she will never have the same kind of partner as that.

What would I want for her otherwise?

Before I’ve realized, it’s 6:30 pm at the grave site, the gilded glance of cooling sunlight from the afternoon heat still permeated the air. The thinner branches and small miscellaneous bushes just underneath leaned cohesively against the wind. I watched from the car, feeling hot and heavy, my cheeks most likely flushed, I hadn’t wanted to get out to present myself to my dad. I wanted to sleep. As if the girl I saw in the rough skytrain panel glass did not exist. Not the way I would sometimes glance up in a sort of defiance. Chin uplifted so; would he have been proud of me?

Is that what I really want? For him to be proud of me? No…it’s more than that, in the same way it is about something just as vaguely little but pronounced as a brave comment can be from a proud parent.

Mom, in the beginning, in the first and second years, did we visit Dad on his death anniversary like we do now? 

Yes, of course. We did it every year since the beginning.

Oh, I guess I just don’t remember.

I remember. I went every year for his birthday, father’s day and his anniversary date. You were there too. Maybe you were just young…

Maybe I am just too young, whereas next year these very same doubtful thoughts will chance to rebound again on the rough plains of my mind. As if not enough time, not 9 years when it hits the mark. Not 10 years even, despite it’s rounding sound. It has to be further, standing more remote than this. Probably for the rest of my life I will feel this way. Feel that betrayal in my thoughts, that he would probably not survive in this time – the age of cellphones designed as mini laptops – that he had lived well in his time. Yet I am sure he would still somehow have managed today should he have made it because my thoughts would need him to do so. If I am so much like him, mum, what should I do?

The sun slanted further down the slope of the hill creating the effect of winking lights dancing among the tree leaves. Beautiful but I felt no blessing from something unearthly. I thought of it when the flaming orange sun beckoned from every reflective window on our drive back. A beacon calling home.

I uttered my first words today, with enough prompting, and just when my mother walked out of ear shot : goodbye daddy.