Tuesday, Apr. 24, 2007 @ 9:55 am
From the Ocean to the Mountains, it's raining and we're climbing, under a dense Douglas Fir canopy. In his footsteps, my father, and the ravens clucking. On the always-raining North Shore, the mountains are covered with thick fog, and the rain falls from the bottom of the clouds. I find my grandfather on the top of the mountain, his surprised expression, because I no longer live here. He's looked exactly the same for twenty years. "It was my best birthday ever." "The best of 93 birthdays?" "Well yes, there have been a lot."
I sit alone in the house, frozen to the couch, unable to eat from their fridge, flipping channels mindlessly only because I don't have a TV at home. I knit down my sock, make the heel, and start out down the foot of the sock towards the toe. The phone rings, and I don't know how to answer it. I sleep in that bed, the quilt is thin, familiar house noises.
I wander through the village, knowing nobody. The same cashier at the produce store. The boys across the street play hockey where we used to ride our bikes, draw with chalk. Our era is over.
Downtown, I'm with my sister and her friends in a restaurant. I watch Science World light up as the sun sets, watch my sister and her boyfriend be together. Laboured talk with her friends, who were unfortunate to have to sit near me. Poor little sister. I don't leave enough tip. I'm driving my parents sedan across bridges, trying to find a radio station to theme these city streets.
All the while I'm thinking about riding Patrick down by the fields, the fawn lilies blooming shyly, and the fields of purple camas. I'm thinking of my garden, and the greens that are already in our salads. I'm thinking of Daniel.
I'm curled in a vinyl ferry seat, counting the colours of the sky over Active Pass. The ocean lays flat out, gulls are riding the bow of the ship, green islands and lighthouses, and I'm going home.
The Last Piece
"I never want to see this puzzle again."
Bleeding Hearts at the Barn
The Shy Pheasant