Friday, August 01, 2014


On rainy days, sadness seeps through me. It loosens dirt as it flows, and it makes hardened ground soft.

On rainy days, I am broken. Wounded, I burrow into a blanket of grey, encircle myself in my own arms, lower my head to my chest, and do not move. There I lie still, allowing my tears, those soft droplets, to accumulate within me, and huddle beneath the cumulonimbus covers.

On rainy days, I do not sleep. I listen, instead, to the sound of a million felted hammers upon the corrugations overhead. The rain congregates in small rivulets that drip from my gutterless roof onto the soft new leaves of deciduous trees. I hear a symphony of taps and trickles, and it is a sound so familiar to me - from a time in utero, perhaps - that it is as much feeling as sound. The many sounds of falling water resonate with me and within me.

On rainy days, I rise from my bed, healed, but not renewed. The world is bathed in pale light. A drop of rain slides down a blade of grass.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

The Black Hat

“It would work like this,” says the man in the black hat.

“We would telephone this person you speak of.

“We tell her… we tell her that her son has been injured. We name a road far out of the city. She does not ask any questions.

“It is a dark night. There is no moon. This woman’s headlights do not work; they have been broken for a week.

“She drives recklessly - too fast - she speeds through the night to save her son. She races down a narrow country road, the one we told her of. There are no street lights. She sees only shadows. Still, she has no caution. She drives like a demon, as if she is possessed by the devil.

“She does not know that there is another car coming towards her. In this other car, there is a man. He also drives very fast. He is the husband of a client of ours.

“There is a big collision.

“They are in the country. There is no one there to help.

“You will not be there. I will not be there. No one will be able to connect us to this… this - shall we call it an accident?”

The man with the black hat waits for a response but does not get one.

He squints at his potential client.

A minute passes. Finally, the man in the black hat says, “Perhaps you will be there, no?

“You will have seen this woman leaving the house in a rush. You will follow behind her and arrive soon after the crash.

“You will save this woman who is no longer the woman you married. You will be her white knight.

“She would be grateful, no?”

The man with the black hat stops speaking. There is a long pause. The man in the black hat is calm and relaxed. The client is nervous and anxious.

“How much,” asks the client.

Friday, February 07, 2014


I will be there for you, my father, though you were seldom there for me. I will fly through the night to stand beside you, your broken body, your bruised and battered face. I will be strong for you my father, though you were seldom strong for me. I will be a tower of strength beside you. I will be a pillar of light before you.

As a parent, you confused correction for encouragement, anger for strength, and distance for latitude. But I will forgive you, my voice low and steady. I will remind you of your failings and I will tell you they no longer matter. I will forgive you for your anger and your aloofness; I will forgive you now, now, right now, before it is too late. You will leave me soon, my father.

My father.

I will stand beside you as you go. I will hold your arm, your wrist, your hand. I will hold that hand as I did when I was a child. And I will remember, then, a sky so blue and wide-open. The sun golden - as it was then - shining through your hair. I will remember you towing me over shallow surf, laughing, waves rolling, sand and splashing.

And I will remember the fear of growing up and of being nothing and you, a pen in that hand, in this hand, looking up from your work and saying I would always have a place with you.

And I will remember the bad news I gave you, and your hand on the back of my hand as I stared at my feet. I was the devil then, my father, but not to you.

You were there for me, my father.