Thursday, May 5, 2011

Journal 13 Sunday girl

Memory lane, drove down it today. In the form of two client meetings/dropping-off-of-product, I was in my old neighbourhood, the one where I spent most of my twenties/all of my early-thirties, the traffic-clogged, streetcar-tracked roads of midtown Toronto. Bathurst street, St. Clair, then turning left onto Davenport (three people brazenly running the red light, no change in the temperment of midtown drivers I'm here to report). Davenport to Avenue ....the flower shops where my friend L. and I spent many a happy Sunday walking into, purchasing said flowers, then flopping onto the nearest patio for a few springy-summery drinks. Then I moved, but we still met at the Ave-Dav area, she lived just north of that intersection. Cross the border over to Yonge and we had the best LCBO (whose kidding who, that Summerhill train station building is one of the best in the city) where we would buy wine ( I am old enough to remember when LCBO's were NOT open on Sundays...) and traipse to my new place downtown, heat up frozen pizzas for dinner, work on our photograph albums, and talk.
That was to contend with the stress that was '07. Again, a damning start to a year, and our Sundays helped us cope with all that we were both dealing with.
I return in thought to how simple things look against the backdrop of NOW.
I flip-flop between trying to keep it light (it's not) and then ultimately giving in to how dark it really seems right now. I don't know which place my writing wants to come from.

Just completed an email to my Dad, in the spring of now, here in '11, a year I'm sure I will look back on as the real end of my innocence. He is having a difficult day. My mom is too. She doesn't know what her life is going to look like next. I know what mine looks like, it will look different in a short while, but it won't look as different as hers will, and there is no sugar-coating that.
I try to remember the years of "not this" , the bbq's, the sitting in the backyard, the bike-rides, the dog, the anniversary party, the jokes. Not the trach, the feeding tube, the f*cking stealing, robbing, destroying disease, the medicines, the waiting, the fear, the dread.
My guilt that I am not doing enough, that I will never be able to do enough, because there is, ultimately, nothing I can do to stop this.

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