SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Giving Notice - Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
Accepting Offers - Tuesday, Sept. 26, 2017
Indian/Polish Wedding - Thursday, Sept. 21, 2017
The Builder - Wednesday, Sept. 13, 2017
Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017


Monday, Apr. 14, 2003 @ 11:50 pm
If only I could believe it's true.



Perfectly cool evening, full of frog harmony and moonlight. It draws me out and away from the stacks of books.

At dusk the robin songs filter in through the fluttering cat door. I stare at my books, then at my sandals by the door. It's time to go for a ride.

So then the forest flies by. It's smelling so good. And then through the suburb. Each home smells like a different meal. Boys are playing road hockey. The dogs are being walked.

I lock up my bike and wander the produce stores. Mangos. Tomatoes. Any colourful sweet fruit.

All the time I'm thinking about what to do about him. I'm thinking about what he said to me last night. He pulled away from me so slightly, leaving me with my eyes closed and jaw tilted up, and he said, "What I remember from that night is the beating of your heart."

I kept my eyes closed because inside I was already running. I was afraid if he looked into my eyes he would see my fear.

I wandered more, thinking more. I sat alone in the back row of the Hollywood. It felt good to be alone, out alone embracing my every mote of my singledom.

And then I was leaning on my bike in a parking lot looking over the rows and rows of parallel orange city lights. The inky mass of the Park dividing the harbours. The twinking peaks on the far shore. Everything moving below me, yet also still and static. Heart aching with a deep love for my home.

The cat ran to greet me at the gate.

All that thinking finally came to a conclusion. I set my things on the table and picked up the phone. I called him back. I did it. I think I may have broken the cycle.


Roots | Shoots