The Laugh. Part Five.

She is still up in her apartment on this warm, saturated summer evening, lazily rocking in her creaky thrift store chair. It's too hot to sleep and so she sips on iced tea and directs her eyes toward an old TV that is quietly murmuring in the corner of the living room. The windows are all open, the sun has not completely set, and air is weighted heavy with memories of earlier summer nights spent out in the streets. She can't shake her teenage feelings tonight, when she would sneak away with friends to drink in the park and wander main. Life felt so much more purposeful then, when she at least had goals, even if the goals were to simply get a few thrills. She wants to crawl out onto her balcony and whisper to someone below that she will meet them in the parking lot in two minutes. She wants to pace the floors of this heat charged room. But instead she rocks slowly and runs her fingers over the velvety arm of the rocker. It's this unsettled feeling, even though all around her the evening breathes contentment.

passing through paris.

"Don't let your love slide", he is in earnest, this dusty man, singing on the subway. I can't understand French much, but this is in English. I reach for a few coins to put in his hat. His sad melody continues, and I stare out at the city as we sway by. I can hear the creaking shifting weight of the old train, and the overwhelming sense of nostalgia fills me up. I feel a connection to the ghosts of musicians, artists and writers who haunt these tracks.

Of course, I don't feel at home in Paris in the ancestral kind of way at all, because I'm not French. But being among such beautiful buildings, where people travel to appreciate the many great works of art that the city houses, there is a feeling that who I am is valued here. As long as I keep my mouth shut, I can blend in.

Back at home, tho, I am a part of the open prairies and the gravel roads. I am a part of the ugly, dumb rolling box store parking lots, and I am a person who appreciates being able to pop into the gas station in my sweats and a hoodie, late at night. I am a part of small town history, where you drive two hours to the city on a weekend to shop at the big malls. I have lived in neighbourhoods where you just don't wear pretty dresses to walk the dog. I am a part of the culture that travels to Paris assuming her high school French classes will suffice.

As I pull my tired feet along the streets, passing the patisseries, cheese shops, and every beautiful old building, I know what it means to not let your love slide. It's a kind of digging your heels into the parts of life that make up who you are, and at the same time being willing to expand, to open up to possibilities that you have not thought of before. It's knowing that Paris may not be your home, but you can find a piece of yourself in the beauty of it.

The Laugh. Part Four.

She remembers how it fizzled out slowly, like a can of pop left open in the sun. It was simultaneous with her quitting smoking, the time she quit for good, when she stopped wanting it. After thirteen years. At the very beginning, he had been an exciting shot to the head, but soon became an expensive habit, and what was she paying for this habit? She had the sense of life being dulled, things had become tasteless, numbed. Could she blame it all on a person? Was it all his fault? No. But, at the same time, she knew asking him to leave would be one of the bravest, most important things she could do.

So, it had been four years now, and she felt like a huge goldfish loose in a tiny, backyard pond. There was no one to meet in this little city, in this corner she had chosen. Some afternoons at the restaurant, she would stand by the window and take a big breath, like a smoker, but without the cough to follow. She'd look out across sleepy main street, at the cars parked on angles in front of shops, at the two lone teenagers on the street, skipping school, hand in hand.

The laughing young man had disappeared. She remembered him in a romantic way, but it wasn't that she had been attracted to him. It was more the kind of romance in a children's fairytale, the unreal, glittery kind. Maybe she had dreamed it. Still, she was affected by him - it seemed like yesterday when they met, but she knew it had been months. Three months. Canadian summer was in full bloom now, the huge trees on the streets were green and full. And she couldn't keep down the buzzing in her mind.

The Laugh. Part Three.

If circumstances were different, she might have been a cowgirl, crashing up over brown dusty hills, giant blue sky behind her, the scent of leather and straw rope on her hands. But, instead, she had been born here in this little city, to Sam and Judy Carter. Nights after school were spent stocking shelves at the local grocery store, slicing open boxes, and whistling to songs like the irritatingly catchy "Hotel California". It wasn't that working in the store was all bad, but there was no thrill there. Her father had not instilled in her a pleasure for thrills, yet she possessed one.

Sometimes while she was working, she'd let herself imagine about different kinds of adventures - a summer traveling in South America, or becoming a sort of outdoor activity enthusiast. But her dreaming was always tentative. There was no realness to it, nothing tangible. The truth is, she never had a good, clear idea about what she wanted to do or "be". Maybe it never crossed her mind, maybe she didn't measure life in those terms.

She first started shop-lifting at work, because it was so easy. She had a good reputation at her job, and had been there several years before she ever took anything. And she wasn't stupid about it. She didn't take typical things like junk-food or stuff from the sections she worked in. And she didn't steal while she was working, either. It was always on an off-shift, when she was picking up groceries for her mom, or stopping in to get something quick.

Because she knew the layout of the store so well, and where the security cameras were placed, she always planned her route beforehand. She knew who would be working in what section when, and could easily stuff a package of dryer sheets into her jacket as he was reaching for laundry soap, or a package of lunch meat - one for the basket, one for her pocket. There was simply no feeling comparable to standing at the checkout, having a casual conversation with the cashier, and then walking out with something she had not worked for, something that no one may even realize was missing.

Predictably, however, she began seeking bigger thrills, riskier situations. Life was dull unless she was plotting. Soon, she had no more time for vague dreaming, all was taken up with her next score. She liked to "case a joint" now, and skipped ridiculously obvious chances in pursuit of a challenge.

The Laugh. Part Two.

It was days later when she remembered that small moment again, and realized how so much had happened within her since that moment of clarity in the street when she and the young man had laughed together. At the thought of it, she held her breath in expectation. She looked around as she walked across the grassy high-school field, crunched frozen puddles down main for three blocks, and up the alley to the back door of the restaurant. Where had he come from? Would she meet him by chance like that again?

Reaching to the hook for her apron, she ties it mindlessly, smoothing down her hair, glancing in the greasy mirror, spying the streak of grey in her bangs. Yet, she feels she looks very fresh this morning. A smile creeps over her face and stays there as she turns on the lights, and sets out Tuesday's lunch menus on each table. Alone, she works quietly to open the restaurant. She is sitting with a coffee when John arrives for the day with some fresh ingredients. She goes to help him chop herbs, something she's only recently been volunteering to do. She takes a deep breath of the earthy, spicy smells as she wields the knife against the greenery, feeling glad to be alive.

All day as she serves customers by the big windows with the light, she talks to them less than usual, and listens more. It's this change that has come over her, and she knows she has less time, less words, less of her... but knowing this somehow offers the sense of more. At the end of the day, her hands are dry and rough against her jacket as she reaches for it from the hook. The wind blows her home, and she can smell spring on its heels.

Faded Florals

She found herself longing for a hazy summer afternoon- a kind of ethereal, sweet, warm couple of hours that don't actually happen in real life. She would spend it lazing on a checked blanket under a tree, with a good book, and some cold lemonade. She would be wearing old blue jeans with bare feet, and a navy-blue vintage blouse, with tiny white polka-dots on it. Wait - strike that, not navy-blue, that's not summery enough. How about a light pink blouse, with a faded floral print, tucked in. No, untucked is more casual. And now for her hair...it would be her perfect, yet ever unachievable hairstyle - glossy, healthy, and let's go with a warm, honey blonde. With every turn of her head, the mottled sun streaming through the leaves would shine perfectly off of her hair and skin.

She would be reading a book, but would soon find it uninteresting - those obscure authors can get so wordy. She would look around, there would have to be other people there, not too close, but just enough to notice her under the tree in her peace, and admire the relaxing, casual moment this beautiful young woman was enjoying. And of course she would pull out her ipod and self-portrait the moment, so that she would never forget it, never forget how she was able to truly enjoy this ideal afternoon, lounging fashionably under a tree. But soon she would realize that no one was actually noticing her, and that the breeze was picking up, and she would shiver as the sun would go behind a cloud. A slight ache in her back would soon get so annoying that it would force her to stand. Glancing down at her untanned, white arms, the empty plastic cup of over-priced, sugary lemonade, she would then check the time. Damn. She should have gotten out of here before rush hour. Now it's gonna take her 40 minutes to get home.

The Laugh. Part One.

She wanted desperately to tell him a story. It would be a story so worth telling, it would be captivating and colourful, it would compel him to her. But when she opened her mouth, the words fell flat against his face. His honest gaze seemed to hone into her mind, reading the story faster than she could create it. She stumbled. His brow creased, his eyes looked beyond her. She could feel herself shrinking away. And then there was silence. Words simply failed to materialize in her mind. She lifted a hand to her mouth as if to hide the absence of chatter, averting her eyes from his at the same time. Then, like the sound of horses galloping in an old western movie, he began to laugh. His laugh came nearer to her heart than any other laugh had been before; she could hear kindess and deepness, calmness and clarity. She began laughing, too.

Hearing her own laugh echo in the street reminded her that she was alive. And she felt as if the laugh was familiar, yet not fully her own. Almost deja vu, but the kind of deja vu where you are experiencing yourself in a way you always knew was inside you, but you have never actually lived out until that moment. It was a sun rising quickly within, streaming through into her laugh. It was a pulling back of heavy drapes to let daylight permeate the room. It was blinding, and it took her off-guard.

Awake.

It's a winter morning. There is no light coming in through the window, the world is still sleeping. You lay there listening to the quiet muffle of your radio alarm. Your mind is conscious of the day's beckon, yet you are still caught up in this dream world, so real and heavy. In your dreams you are crawling on the floor, in an old, empty church. You would rather not be crawling, you would rather be stretching in the warmth of the bed, feeling your limbs begin to move with life again for another day. Even when your morning muscles feebly hold you up in the shower, there is a crawling-like quality to your movements. Your hand crawls to reach the shampoo, slowly. And you let the water wash you in silence for several minutes, mechanical movements warming you slowly. Surprisingly, the dream-trance has lifted by the time you turn off the squeaky taps, and flick back the shower curtain in search of a towel. You have awakened; step into the sanctuary of your day.

Air & Altitude

Imagine you're knitting. If you don't know how, just imagine your fingers have become wise with muscle memory, and they take the needles, flinging the yarn back and forth, stitching together something you love. And the joy is that you don't have to look at it, or even think about it. Also, imagine you are sitting cross-legged, on a very high, grassy mountain, kind of like where Heidi, Girl of the Alps lived. The atmosphere is cool and comfortable. You look down below, through a clearing, towards the town. The people are like ants, their faces too small to see, only the general direction of their travels can be made out. Now take in a breath of fresh, fresh air, the kind that cools your tubes as it goes in. Now let out the breath. Notice how everything around you is quiet. Your hair lightly brushes against your arm in the breeze, and you realize it is very long, it has grown back, it has grown fuller, softer, like a wizard's.

All at once, you know you are now old. Although your hands move quickly back and forth with each stitch of yarn, they also feel thick and heavy and dry. The colour has gone out of them, and their skin is covered with age spots. You think of the years your hands have seen and felt. You think of the work, and all of the things they have touched. And you take another deep breath of that sweetness called air, and you gulp down tears of thankfulness for the moments in time that were yours all along, realizing you were there for every bit of it. You have been left changed, etched.