7th July 11
At the beginning of spring, we decorated the fire escape behind our house with tea lights. We swept up the last of the rotting leaves, left over from Autumn, that the snow had kept hidden through out winter. Our bbq, old and bet out of shape, filled the neighbourhood with the smell of dripping sausages and faintly burned gas. The temperature had finally stuck above ten degrees and after being cooped up in our apartment for four cold months we wanted to breathe in as much fresh air as possible.
My memories of that night blur together and then separate into distinct snap shots like the coloured glass in a kaleidoscope: bottles of Labatt Bleu and Moosehead balanced on the concrete steps, a cake lit up with candles and glowing brighter than the lights spilling out from the kitchen, voices drunkenly singing out of chorus to Mike Snow. And, of course, all of us together, propped up on chairs or perched on the edge of knees and laps, reaching for arms to be pulled into photographs and yelling for more beer.
When it got too cold to be outside in the t-shirts we insisted on wearing, we moved inside to the squashy blue couches. Outside a lone raccoon picked through the scraps of our bbq and I watched him silently through a steamy patch on the window. The streets were quiet and empty and so we fell quieter too. In the crowded space of our lounge, we passed around the last of the wine and beers. We couldn’t all fit on the couches so some spread out on the floor, too drunk or too high to care discomfort. We were still drugged on Montreal and the prospect of a few more treasured months spent in the city.
I propped my feet onto the table and let the conversation of my friends gently lull me into something close to sleep. In another country, in another world we had lives waiting for us to return. But for now, there was wine that needed to be finished.
20th August 10
I told myself that looking back would only make it worse and that I had to say goodbye and keep walking. But I looked back with both of them.
I pressed my palm to window pane of the plane and swallowed my last image of him standing alone on the viewing deck. As the plane turned on the run way I held onto that snapshot and continued to crane my neck for one last look. Next to me the man in the tie offered me vanilla scented kleenex. Now when I think of that goodbye I think of cupcakes.
I did the same thing with her. We said goodbye on that empty park path in the late afternoon light. I turned to wave one last time but she was a shadow in the sun, the splinter pupil of a cats eye. When I turned again she had disappeared behind the sun and the shadows were longer and darker.
8th July 10
Carley
I’m thinking of you tonight because it’s one of those nights we used to love. Those overly warm evenings when we’d get light-headed and giddy on chilled white wine before heading out. The countless tequila shots we downed and shoes we broke on the dance floor. The laughs we shared waiting in line for cabs while the sun rose. The pizza from New York slice that we would crave right after lock down. The back and forth drunken texts when we lost each other somewhere between bar one and bar fifty. I want to drink cold white wine with you and get plastered tonight.
3rd July 10
Splash
Last year summer came early. By August we were easily hitting the thirties and I was risking shorts and t-shirts. At the time I was already fantasising about spending my December in the snow rather than the sticky Brisbane climate.
I arrived home from work early one day to find Dominic and Jordan playing with a tennis ball out by the pool. They had both stripped off their t-shirts and Jordan, a mass of endless energy, was running circles around Dominic as he casually tossed the ball into the afternoon air.
I watched my two brothers from the shade of the veranda for a few minutes. Fifteen years separates me from Jordan and only two from Dominic. Yet, the two of them interact as if there is no difference at all. Jordan swung from Dominic’s arm, one leg looped around his waist as he tried to grab the ball and their laughter echoed in the silence of the suburbs.
After reluctantly pulling on my bikini and a pair of shorts, I joined the two in their ball game. Some how we landed in the pool. Although the air had warmed up, the pool was still freezing. Dominic and I had gone in together, a tangle of long limbs and laughter. I came up for air gasping from the cold at the exact same time Jordan canon balled into the water. His little body flew through the air and he hit the water with a shout. I had just taken a breath when I felt his arms around my neck, pulling me back under. We resurfaced together, spluttering, coughing and wiping water from our eyes.
“That was crazy!” he yelled for our neighbours to hear.
“You’re crazy!” I yelled back, pushing him through the water to Dominic in an attempt to get out and get warm again.
Neither of them, however, were about to let me out so soon. Jordan grabbed my ankle with a shriek of delight. “I got you! I got you! I’ll never let you go!”
We spent the rest of the afternoon in the swimming pool, despite the cold. We laughed and played and swallowed water and got so much chlorine in our eyes they turned pink. That day nothing could have mattered more.
1st July 10
When we are apart, which these days isn’t as long as when I was studying, we rely heavily on electronic communication. We text, we phone, we Skype, we e-mail, we Facebook, we chat online and he follows my blog. I find it both amazing and sad that our relationship is boxed up and defined in the bright white glare of a computer and cell phone screen. It’s supposed to make things easier but really it doesn’t. Fast and convenient doesn’t necessarily equate to that which is easy. It’s confusing and, quite frankly, exhausting having to check in on the several modes of communication. I hate this. I hate the hate the back and forth. I hate the broken internet connection, the lack of phone reception and the hundred other problems that crop up. I hate the forgetting to hit ‘send’ or deleting something by mistake. I hate the excuses that get caught up with it all. I think people had it better when they had letters waiting for them in the post box. At least that was something tangible. This is cold. This is clinical. This is a type of correspondence that can essentially be deleted with a click of button. It just doesn’t feel real anymore.
