Fall Flowers

Scrolling through my Spotify playlists to find that song.
That song that makes me feel so good.
So good that when I walk along Queen Street with the sun shining and my fake Raybans on, I feel unstoppable.
There, found it. Press play.

Now I am beautiful.
I am emotionally, physically and spiritually healthy.
The kind of woman who drinks Matcha tea, organic wine and eats only eggs from the really happy hens, not the sad ones in cages.
Effortlessly chic.
I am fulfilled.
I use crystal rituals in my weekend self-care routines.
I am in a relationship that is both deep and nourishing, yet light and joyful.

Let me play this song again, just one more time.
I don’t want to let go of this version of myself quite yet.
I love her.
I looooove her.
Okay, it’s on repeat. All is good. I’m still her.

I smile at strangers walking past me, admire Halloween decorations and wave at a little toddler wearing sparkly shoes.
Being her means my roots are always touched up, never grey.
I practice yoga and tantric sex, giving my complexion that gorgeous, glow-y from within look.
I don’t just live, I thrive.

Oh no, someone is calling me, interrupting my time with her.
It’s my husband.
I answer.

“Can you pick up some snacks, you know like chips and stuff? The guys are coming over tonight to watch the game.”

“Sure, no problem,” I say lightly trying not to lose her.

I pop into our local grocer, waving at the checkout guy.
I’m still her, for a little longer.
I grab chips and pretzels and all the usual crap that my husband likes eating while watching sports.
Then I grab myself a bouquet of mixed fall flowers, that’s what she would do.
She would buy herself flowers every week, never leaving them to die and rot in the vase.
I spot a container of overpriced pre-cut fruit pieces – her favorite.

I replay the song again.
I feel so good being her.
She loves dark chocolate with sea salt, so I toss a couple of bars into my basket.
In the refrigerator, next to the Kombucha, is a new drink I’ve never seen before.
It’s called Goddess Juice, a turmeric based elixir that you take as a daily shot for:
“Enhancing your inner functioning, wellbeing and spirit,” the label says.
Oh this is exactly what she would like, she would totally buy this.

I pause my music so I can chat with the checkout guy.

“You watching the game tonight? I’ve got a good feeling about this one, I think the Leafs are gonna win.”

“My husband is. He just bought himself a special beer fridge for the new season.”

“Sweet.”

I pay, then continue walking home.
I’m now balancing two paper bags plus my purse, it’s too much and I’ve got several blocks to go.
Even though I’m still playing the song I feel her disappearing.

“Why can’t he buy his own snacks? What am I, his mother?”

As the irritation grows I feel her slipping further and further away. She’s wearing oatmeal-colored cashmere loungewear and she doesn’t like my energy right now.

I walk the final block to our tiny row house; I’m sweating. It’s fall but somehow I’m sweating.
I turn the key and my husband meets me at the door:

“Thanks babe, you’re fucking amazing,” he says as he takes the two bags and kisses my forehead.

He’s talking to me about I don’t know what, not even noticing the Goddess Juice, which is something he would usually make fun of. I hide the juice at the bottom of the fridge and fill a vase with water.

“I have a good feeling about the Leafs tonight, I think they’re gonna win,” I say while arranging my flowers.

“Ah babe, that’s what I like to hear. Go Leafs!” he yells, emptying bags of chips into bowls.

I pour myself a glass of red wine and take a sip, followed by a bite of dark chocolate with sea salt – it’s exactly what she would do. And My God it’s delicious.

https://janneford.com

Dry Hands

Let’s do it
Let’s jump together
Into lightness, into frivolity
I know it’s not usually where we hang out
We usually hang out in the darkness, in the heaviness
But I don’t like it here anymore
It’s sad and it’s hard to breathe
Please, take my hand and let’s jump together
No, I can’t promise anything
It might not work
Maybe we are not meant to live in lightness
Maybe in a past life we were horrible people and now we have to live in the darkness, you know like karma
But I think that’s unlikely
I think if we jumped into lightness, into joy
I think we would really like it there
We could laugh and sing and eat cake
I mean who doesn’t like cake?
Let’s try, it’s worth trying isn’t it?
Take my hand
I know my hand will probably feel weird because you’re not used to holding it
And it might be a little dry because I always forget to moisturize
But we deserve silly nights together, going to the fair and eating cotton candy
True, we don’t have an actual fair in this big angry city we live in, but think of it more like a metaphor
Take my hand and let’s just try
Let’s jump
And if you don’t like the light you can go back to the darkness
But I think I’m going to like the light
I’m ready for the light
Truthfully I’ve never liked living in this dark heavy place
I guess I should have told you that I didn’t like it here
But I felt like I wasn’t allowed to say anything
And it really is getting so hard to breathe
So please, won’t you take my hand and jump into the lightness with me?

Art by Willy Pogany

All The Candy You Want

It is both a beautiful blessing and kind of an odd curse to be so close with your parents. I cannot imagine my life without them.

Every time my mother falls, often hitting her head, I feel like I’ve been punched in the throat. Yesterday she fell while I was visiting and though I was able to help her somewhat, I was not able to lift her up. So I made her comfortable on the floor and I fed her ice cubes while we waited for my father to return home from golf (she did not want me to call 911). Apparently they had perfected a way of him lifting her up:

“He should be finished his game by now, but he might be having lunch at the club. Call the restaurant.”

I called and he had just left. God forbid my dad actually bring his cell phone with him. So my dog Lexie sat with us on the bathroom floor for 45 minutes and every so often she tried stealing ice cubes from my mother’s mouth, convinced they were treats.

Having just turned 80, my dad is in relatively good health, but recently he’s been looking much older. When it’s hot and humid out and he insists on playing golf three days in a row – even though he returns home looking haggard – I’m tempted to call the club and scream:

“How could you let this man play so many days? He’s going to die out there and I swear to God I will come for blood if that happens!”

Of course I am not that un-hinged, at least not yet, so instead I use my loving daughter skills to convince him to take a day off. I think he’s happy to have the rest. On some level he knows he needs it.

At dinner he regals us with funny stories from his youth. Like the time he drove an out of town date to a garbage dump to watch bears scavenge for treats (he grew up in Northern Ontario):

“You did not do that dad!”

His face lighting up, he answers:

“I did.”

Chiming in, my mom says:

“He was hoping the girl would jump in his arms for protection.”

Almost every day my mother falls asleep at the breakfast table. Many times I have found her slumped over, newspaper on the floor. Fearing the worst, I shake her frantically:

“Mom, mom wake up, WAKE UP!”

Though her feet and ankles are gnarled like old trees from arthritis, my mother still jazzes up her orthopaedic sneakers with brightly colored shoe laces. I love that about her. She also keeps jewelry in pill boxes and stays up until 3 AM writing cards to relatives. After her children were grown and out of the house, she went back to university and got her Master’s Degree and PhD. My mother lives for literature, ceramics, art and gemstones. Everyone loves chatting with “Mary” and everyone knows her:

“Oh is this cappuccino for Mary? Are you Mary’s daughter? Say hi to your mom for me,” Starbucks staff say.

The idea of my mother not being around to write me cryptic, all CAPS emails, signed “L, MOM” is inconceivable.

Until the age of three I was very happily an only child, when much to my dismay my brother appeared. According to family lore I tried murdering him by pushing his baby carriage down a steep hill. That sounds a tad dramatic to me, I mean I was only three. But my mother swears I tried to kill him. A year and a half later another brother came along and I remained un-impressed. I had loved being an only child and didn’t understand the need to complicate our lives with these loud, ridiculous boys.

Speaking of dramatic, my father has developed the most dramatic, terrifying cough, apparently due to “particles in his lungs.” Of course he only got that diagnosis (and an inhaler), after my mother and I badgered him for six months:

“You sound like you’re dying, could you PLEASE go to the doctor?” we pleaded. He keeps his inhaler in their antique writing desk and likes demonstrating the correct way to use it:

“You have to attach the inhaler to this thing – the chamber – and you have to inhale TWO times, not one.”

When my father needs my help with something having to do with emails, his computer, or things like vaccine paperwork, he often slips back into his “I’m a lawyer and you’re my secretary” mode and I have to check him:

“Dad, don’t use that work voice, I’m not your secretary.”

He loves wearing only one hearing aid so that multiple conversations are happening simultaneously:

“The Russians invaded Ukraine,” I’ll say.

“I know, there’s too much rain here,” he’ll answer.

The idea of my father not being around to drive me nuts is inconceivable too.

“When you were a baby we drove to New England with you in a laundry basket in the back seat,” he tells me over blueberry pie and ice cream.

“Ummm, that’s a little crazy!” I answer laughing. He loves seeing me get worked up over his stories.

Recently I said to my mother:

“You guys can’t die, I can’t live without you.”

“I know. But you’ll get through it. The grief will be horrible, but then it will start coming in smaller, less intense waves.”

Hugging her I said,

“No, I won’t get through it.”

“You can have me made into jewelry and wear me.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked my mother horrified.

“You can turn my ashes into a diamond, I read about it in The New York Times.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Then again, it might not be such a crazy idea. Better than a Catholic funeral. I remember my grandmother lying in her coffin in Hartford CT: the mortician had done a half assed job of sewing up her mouth. I leaned down close to her face, (closer than is proper etiquette), fixating on her stitches.

“But imagine if I lost you. Like if I lost your ashes-to-diamond jewelry?”

“Not a problem. You’re really good at finding things.”

That’s true. Whenever my parents lose something I usually find it within minutes.

Pre-grieving my parents’ death is of course an insane way to live, so I’m trying my best to stay in the present and enjoy every minute with them and write down all their stories:

“The neighbourhood boys tied me to a telephone pole because I wouldn’t give up my candy,” my mom recounted casually one day to me over shortbread cookies.

“OMG! That’s horrible, how scary.”

“I know and I was really upset because they took all my candy. When I didn’t come home from the store my mother went looking for me and and when she found me tied to the pole she said:
‘Mary, you could drive a saint to drink.'”

“That’s a horrible reaction, she was blaming you,” I said, but then we both burst out laughing. Later that night I noticed that there were several boxes of candy in the kitchen cupboard: chocolate balls, jujubes, hard toffee with creamy insides, turtles, mints…Now she gets all the candy she wants.

Maybe if I had kids of my own I would be too busy raising teenagers to spend so much time fixating on my parents. They would have loved to have had grandchildren. Instead my mother buys her grand-dog cozy velour blankets in every shade of the rainbow; Lexie has her own section in their hall closet. And my father adores her:

“You’re the best dog aren’t you? You’re the very best dog,” he says as he pets her lovingly.

In the TV room Lexie sits next to my father on the couch as he watches the news, or above his head on top of his giant reading chair as he reads The Wall Street Journal.

I’m fiercely protective of them and the older they get the more Mama Bear like my love for them becomes. Now if only I could find a way to keep them safe and healthy forever.

Spiritual Fixer

“I’m broken.”
“You are not broken.”
“But I am.”

“You might feel broken, but you are not broken. Do you hear me? You are not.”
“Okay.”

“Feeling broken is your psyche’s way of waving a giant red flag, it’s telling you to make changes immediately. Feeling broken is a warning sign and you must – you must – take it seriously.”

“I understand. Except that because I feel broken I also feel exhausted, unable to do anything.”

“That’s because you’ve given all your power away, you didn’t mean to, but you did. And that’s left you feeling tired: no power = no energy. I understand my dear sweet thing. But I’ll let you in on a little secret: you have a hidden reserve of power. Think of it like a backup generator. And in emergencies – like now – you need to switch that generator ON to power you up.”

“Well I don’t know, that sounds a little nuts. A backup generator to magically give me energy so that I can make changes in my life?”

“What’s nuts is that you’re allowing the life to be choked out of you.”

“Well…”

“Either you believe me and tap into that backup generator to energize yourself, or I’ll move on to help someone else. I’m not getting any younger.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to take up all your time, I’m not even sure who I’m talking to. Are you God?”

“God? No. If there’s a God he’s been on one long-assed vacation – I mean just look at the mess this world is in! Think of me more like a Fixer, A Spiritual Fixer.”

“That sounds like the name of a Netflix Series that I would watch.”

“Good, then maybe you’ll listen to me and use your backup generator and get your damn life turned around so you can stop feeling broken.”

“Okay, okay, I’ve got it. I believe you. I’m turning the generator on. Next time you see me I will have taken back all my power, I promise you.”

“Glad to hear it. Now I’ve got a busy schedule today, it seems there are a lot of people feeling broken in your neighborhood, so I’m off.”

“Thank you so much, I appreciate your help.”

“I’ll email you my invoice.”

“Wait, you charge for your services?”

“Well of course I charge for my services, why wouldn’t I? A girl’s gotta eat – and buy shoes! I’ll check in on you in two weeks, there’s no charge for the follow-up appointment.”

“Okay. I’ll see you then, bye.”

“Bye sweetness. And remember: you’ve got this, you really do.”

Artwork by Lucia Dami

Light Catcher

Twirling in the park, trying to catch my light
I know it’s out here
I just have to twirl a little faster
My arms outstretched
I almost had it earlier, but it slipped through my fingers
Like when you’re trying to climax but you can’t
Frustration
I can do this
This light is mine for the taking
If other people get to have their light then I do too
I’m going to twirl in this park until it’s mine
Like Wonder Woman spinning from her civilian clothes into her superhero outfit
I’m spinning to get my version of that
I mean I’ll make it my own, I’m not going to copy Wonder Woman’s look
Mine will probably be a black lace dress
My tiara will be made of iridescent crystals and vintage rhinestones
I’ll wear over-the-knee black suede boots like the ones I had in the 80’s from Le Chateau
Witch-y chic meets Urban Boho
Whatever, I’ll figure out the aesthetic later on
Right now I need to concentrate
That light is rightfully mine
And by the way that light is also rightfully yours
So why aren’t you twirling in the park with me?
Come join me, we’ll twirl together
We need a twirling Spotify playlist
I’m thinking a Kate Bush/FKA Twigs/Tori Amos/Billie Elish vibe
I’m tossing my head back now because that’s what people do when they twirl, at least in the movies
Though I have a bad neck so I need to be careful
What will I do when I catch the light you ask?
I will use the light to guide me down the path that I already know I’m meant to take, it’s just been too dark for me to follow
Like a fancy flashlight, the light will beautifully illuminate my way
It will also give me special powers, different than Wonder Woman’s powers, like I won’t have The Lasso of Truth
Instead, I’ll speak my truth at all times, I won’t ever make myself small, I will speak my truth even if others don’t like it
I’ll put up boundaries with ease: “sorry your energy is wack, I’m outta here”
I’ll become best friends with my anxiety and calm her the fuck down
I’ll let go of everything that doesn’t serve me, like packing lightly for a trip:
I want to be the chic woman traveling with only one carry-on bag, not the frazzled sweating woman who’s checking two oversized suitcases held together with duct tape
My light will laser-beam away old trauma, making room – so so much room – for me to thrive
I’ll use my light to help anyone in need – so long as they have love in their heart
They can plug into me and I’ll charge them – just like charging an electric car
Light-infused energy will flood their body and psyche, allowing them to live with more ease & experience more joy
Maybe I’ll create a lovely room for people to relax while they plug into me, like “I Dream of Jeannie’s” room – a circular purple velvet couch with pink satin pillows
All this to say, that if you happen to see a woman twirling in the park don’t worry
It’s just me trying to catch my light

✨Artwork by Daria Hlazatova. Find her on Instagram✨

Spectacular

I miss you
I miss how we were together
At least I miss the memory of how we were together
I can’t honestly say whether my memories are 100% correct
It is entirely possible that I have romanticized things, embellished things; I do have a flair for the dramatic.
But regardless, whether my memory is “correct” or not, I don’t care.
I still miss you
I still miss us
You believed in me
You didn’t want me to dim my light, you wanted me to radiate.
You wanted me to sparkle like a crystal chandelier with high voltage lightbulbs
My light made you happy
To be encouraged to shine like a fucking diamond was the most beautiful feeling
Really, I’m not interested in any other kind of love
Truth be told, there is a chance that my psyche imagined this entire relationship.
That I never had someone like you
That you are a figment of my spectacular mind
If that’s the case, then I still don’t care
Because what I miss – you, us – is what I want in my life
I don’t want anything less
I won’t settle
What’s the point?
The planet is burning, there is no time for anything less
There is only time to love in a way that allows the other to blossom from a little bud to a glorious flower.
If we all loved like that, helping each other become our most sublime versions of ourselves, we might create an energy force so powerful that we could save the fucking world.

Modern Art

“Lily is practicing witchcraft. Like spells and shit.”

“Marcus – language! Lily, what’s this about witchcraft?”

“You better watch out idiot. I’ll put a spell on you and you’ll lose your next soccer game.”

“Kids, that’s enough. Can we please just enjoy this delicious lasagna that I bought from the overpriced takeout place?”

“It’s perfect babe and so is the salad, bread and wine.”

Jen leaned across the table and touched Monica’s hand.

“How was school today?” Jen asked.

“Lame,” answered Lily.

“Not that bad actually,” Marcus said, stuffing a large piece of garlic bread into his mouth.

“Lily, why was school lame?” Monica asked

Lily sighed.

“Because our educational system is broken. It’s astounding that I even know how to spell and read.”

“Oh Lily, don’t be so dramatic. Your school is one of the best in the city.”

Monica took a long sip of wine and eyed her children. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes she wished she’d never had kids. Sometimes she wished that she and Jen had just become foster parents to cats and dogs. Sometimes having one pre-teen and one teenager was just too fucking much.

“Well I had a challenging day. This new show I’m on is going to be a beast. But I like the lead actor, he’s totally down to earth – Chris Evermore – do you kids know him?”

“OMG Chris Evermore? Mom, I have to come to set with you, he is the most beautiful actor ever!”

“He is pretty handsome, I mean if you like chiseled males with wavy hair, green eyes and sparkling smiles.”

“He’s my favorite vampire from that Netflix series and I love his British accent,” Jen said.

“When you’re doing a fitting with him you have to text me,” Lily pleaded.

“Absolutely not. My work is actual work, it’s not for instagram selfies with celebs.”

After dinner Lily went to her room where she finished her homework then texted her best friend Ryder:

“Working on tarot cards. Talk later. xo”

Ryder texted back a line of witch emojis.

Switching on her IKEA faux candle to create a vibe, (real candles were forbidden in their house due to her parents’ shared fear of fire), Lily waved a selenite crystal over her cards, her body and around the bedroom to cleanse the energy.

Taking a few deep breaths, she shuffled the tarot deck while focusing on the question she wanted to ask:

“Should I lose my virginity to Isaiah?”

She and Isaiah had been friends since they were eight years old, they were fifteen now. They weren’t dating, but they both wanted to lose their virginity.

“It’s like too much pressure to be a virgin, I need some experience under my belt. You think I’m cool, but like no other girls do,” Isaiah complained, as they smoked pot in his backyard a couple of weeks ago.

“That’s because our school is made up of 90% losers. I mean we’re supposed to be an uber progressive collegiate, but like we have a giant football team and cheerleaders straight out of a John Hughes movie. What the fuck?”

“Totally. But I mean so many guys like you, you could be dating if you wanted to.”

“Isaiah, I’m gonna stop you right there. As I was saying earlier 90% of our schoolmates are losers. Derek Jeffries wants to run the Republican Party and one day he probably will – which is terrifying. Jared Keto is a sleaze-bag wanna be poet who has fucked at least 20 girls – and those are only the girls that I know about. Imagine him reciting some atrocious poem and then me sleeping with him. Like NO. Then there’s Moses and even though everyone says he has a thing for me and even though he’s gorgeous – I totally get a gay vibe from him. I could be wrong, but I don’t think I’m his cup of tea.”

“Well when you break it down like that I see your options are more limited than I thought.”

As they lay on the grass passing the joint between them, Lily came up with a plan:

“What about if we lose our virginity together? I mean we like each other. We respect each other. I think we could deal with any potential weirdness that might come up post sex. It’s just an idea and granted I am high as fuck right now, but give it some thought,” Lily suggested.

Over the last couple of weeks they had discussed the pros and cons of their secret sex plan, but always in person, they didn’t want to leave a text trail.

Lily dealt herself three tarot cards, lying them down side by side.

“Have you finished your homework?” asked Jen opening the door as she knocked.

“Hello, boundaries mom! First you knock, then you wait for me to answer before you barge in,” Lily said exasperated.

Jen stared at Lily, who was sitting cross-legged on a fake bear rug, wearing some kind of boho kimono with tarot cards in front of her.

“Oh My God, Marcus was right. You’re doing witchcraft. Lily be careful. Your great grandmother was a witch, well she was a secret witch because they were Catholic. But she created a lot of chaos with her witchery.”

Lily looked at her mom with utter disdain.

“Lily-Rose was a rock star. I would have loved to meet her. She didn’t create chaos – she killed off her horribly abusive husband, then she created a successful herbal beauty company and she had hot lovers right up until her death. That’s a good life if you ask me. Plus, I’m not a practicing Wiccan, at least not yet. I’m just working with tarot cards.”

“Fine. But no spells – ever.”

Jen went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine.

“Lily is reading tarot cards.”

Monica looked up from her laptop:

“I rather she be reading tarot cards than making vacuous tik tok videos.”

“Good point,” Jen said.

After her mom’s rude intrusion Lily felt it necessary to re-cleanse the room’s energy, so she swished the selenite crystal around. Taking a slow deep breath, Lily turned over the three cards: they represented the past, present and future.

“Death” was her first card. Reading from the tarot card book she learned that death symbolized endings, freeing oneself and moving forward.

“Totally, this is totally what I’ve been feeling and wanting these last six months,” Lily thought.

The second card, “The Fool,” represented an exciting new adventure which might require taking a blind leap of faith, resulting in great emotional growth.

“LOL” Lily said out loud, throwing her head back and smiling.

“Knight of Cups,” was the final card, the future card. It represented overwhelming love energy. Like get ready to be swept away into a six part Netflix series about a Wiccan high schooler and her theatre club nerd crush.

“Wow. Well that’s maybe a little bit too much love energy. Does that mean I might fall in love with Isaiah? Or him with me? Cause that would be a problem. But still, I think in this context Knight of Cups is a good omen. It points to positive feelings,” Lily proclaimed, as if she was doing a tarot card reading for a client.

“Who are you talking to? A spirit?” asked Marcus who was leaning at her open doorway eating a pop tart.

“Oh my fucking God, does no one in this family knock? Get out Marcus, I’m busy.”

“Busy being a witch. Are you going to start dressing all Goth now?” he asked with his mouth full.

From under her bed Lily retrieved one of her floral Doc Martens and threw it at him.

“Lily just committed an act of violence against me,” he yelled as he left her doorway.

“For the love of God kids, cut it out!” screamed Monica.

Lily went through her cards again, reading more about their symbolism and about how best to interpret a three card spread.

“Ok. So that’s it. Isaiah and I are doing this,” she said lying down on the cozy rug.

“Thank you Goddess for guiding me in the right direction. Please don’t let our friendship get messed up. We’re simply helping each other out.”

“Why are you lying on the floor? Do you feel okay?” Monica asked from the door which had been left partly open by Marcus.

“Mom – boundaries!”

“Your door was open.”

“That’s because your idiot son just opened it without knocking. It’s like no one in this house – except me – actually respects boundaries. It’s not fair.”

“Okay sorry love, you’re totally right. So, what did you learn from your tarot reading?”

“I was guided in a positive direction,” Lily said vaguely, knowing it would irritate her.

“Well, I guess that’s a good thing. Let me kiss your beautiful face – I’m going to bed early.”

Monica bent down and kissed Lily’s soft cheek:

“You are a fucking Goddess and don’t you ever forget it.”

“Night mom,” Lily said.

“Night my love.”

Lily texted Ryder:

“Exhausted. Love u. See u manana.”

Ryder texted back:

“Same. XO”

Later in bed, Lily remembered the sex advice her Aunt Jess had given her last year:

“Your vulva should be happy. It should be wet and delighted, otherwise don’t let the penis inside. And make sure your lover spends time on your clitoris, help him figure it out if necessary. Most men are clueless and most teenage boys are even more clueless because they’ve grown up addicted to porn.”

Lily appreciated her Aunt’s advice, she was never shy talking about sex stuff. For Lily’s fifteenth birthday she had given her a pink vibrator with bunny ears.

They had celebrated her birthday at Gjelina’s on Abbott Kinney Blvd. Lily had taken the present out of its sparkly decorative gift bag, not knowing that she would be flashing everyone – the waiter, the bus person and the table of six sitting next to them – a vibrator called Pink Lady. Monica was mortified, Jen couldn’t stop laughing, Aunt Jess had no idea what all the fuss was about and Marcus posted a photo of it to Instagram.

Lily’s mind was dancing with wet vagina sugar plum fairies and erect penises, making it hard to sleep. She envisioned intercourse as kind of a weird modern art sculpture – two bodies entwined as one for a moment in time. It seemed both creepy and spectacular.

Artwork by Henri Matisse, “The Entwined Lovers,” 1948.

The Fuchsia House

I’m lonely without you, though you are sitting right next to me. Decades spent together but I can’t remember how your lips taste.

I don’t know when this happened or how or why, but like cancer the loneliness has spread and there’s no cure in sight.

We sit side by side watching television. Or streaming. I guess we are technically watching streaming on television? What does that even mean? I don’t understand any of it.

Our one child, grown and long moved out of the house. All pets dead, their paw prints lining our hallway; it’s just us now. We’re like two old mannequins in an ancient storefront, dressed in out of date fashion, sitting on a vintage but not in a cool way sofa.

I want to go back, back to that old movie theatre we used to frequent with its stale popcorn and Bogart double features. Back to our lovemaking, which left our bedroom looking like it had been ransacked by a rock n’ roll group. Back to our eating canned tomato soup and grilled cheese for a year straight so that we could save up enough money for a down payment on our first home.

You ask me if I want a glass of sherry. I hate sherry and always have, but I say:

“Sure, thanks.”

Just like I don’t remember what your lips taste like, you don’t remember what I like to drink.

I sink into the corner of the couch and drink the sherry. A blanket covers my lap. It’s an ugly hand knit blanket that a close friend made for me. I’m unable to part with gifts from loved ones, no matter how ugly or useless they are. I have a whole closet full of such gifts. That one time, when you went a little nuts with spring cleaning and wanted to give everything away to The Salvation Army, I said:

“No. I’m keeping all my friend and family gifts.”

You called me a hoarder, which was mean. But sometimes you’re mean, it’s one of your character flaws. I’m used to it though. I pay the meanness no attention, shrugging it off like a cardigan – taking away its power. They’re just words, I can handle words.

You pass me a shortbread cookie. Since when do we eat shortbread cookies and drink sherry? What are we like 85 yrs old suddenly? Jesus H. Christ.

“No thanks,” I say to the cookie.

I want to go back to Paris with you and eat pastries that look like art. And sit outside at cafes and people watch, kicking each other under the table when someone truly fabulous walks by:

“Did you see that woman? She looks like Catherine Deneuve. Stunning.”

“Did you read Sarah’s email?” I ask.

“She’s coming home for the long weekend next month. She’s bringing her new girlfriend, Jemima.”

“What happened to Chrissy?”

“They broke up. But Jemima sounds like a better match for her, I have a good feeling about this one.”

“Good. I hope your feeling is right. It’s time for her to settle down, we’re not getting any younger,” he said annoyed.

“I hate sherry,” I said.

“You hate sherry? Since when?”

“Since forever. I’m getting a glass of red wine.”

He sighed, annoyed again. Annoyed was his new go-to default mood.

In the dining room I poured myself a large glass of wine and stared at a painting that Sarah had made for us when she was eight years old. It was the three of us standing in front of a fuchsia-painted house with eight multi-colored cats at our feet. I had spent a fortune getting it professionally framed and honestly it looked like something that could hang in MOMA.

Back on the sofa we continued watching whatever it was we were watching. It was one of those shows where the female detectives all had shiny blow-outs and perfect manicures.

“I think I will take a cookie if there are any left,” I said.

He passed me one.

“That guy is bad news. He’s up to something,” he said, slurping his sherry.

I nodded knowingly:

“You’re totally right.”

It turned out that shortbread cookies and red wine went beautifully together – who knew?

“Should we go back to Paris this fall? We haven’t been since before we had Sarah,” I asked.

“I’m not getting on a plane, it’s still not safe with covid.”

“I really want us to go back while we’re still healthy enough to get around.”

“Go alone then, just don’t bring back covid.”

“You want me to go to Paris alone?”

“If you want to go just go. I’m not going to stop you.”

No wonder she couldn’t remember what his lips tasted like. Her husband wanted her to go to the most romantic city in the world alone. Lovely. Fucking lovely.

“I don’t trust Detective Monaghan, I think he’s corrupt.”

She ate the final bite of her cookie and took a sip of wine.

This was her life now: Detective Monaghan and his partner, the shiny-haired detective. And sherry. And shortbread. This was her life?

It was both comical and sad. No wonder she felt fucking lonely – he was completely checked out. She could probably go to Paris and he wouldn’t even notice she was gone.

Maybe Sarah would go with her? They could have a fun mother -daughter adventure. Except that Sarah was busy living her life. A delicious life full of fucking and discovering herself and finishing her PhD.

Maybe she should go back to school. She could get her Master’s Degree in Human Resource Management, or, just study something completely different like Italian or astronomy. She wrapped the ugly blanket around her, took her wine and walked towards her office.

“Do you want me to pause it?” he asked as she walked away

“No, don’t bother. I’m not coming back.”

At her computer she started looking up different university classes, but soon found herself on the United Airlines’ website. They had a seat sale to Europe, a really good seat sale, like they were practically giving away the seats. Work-wise this was the perfect time for her to travel, it was quiet and she had tons of vacation days saved up.

One of the seat sales included hotel accommodation. The hotel was located near the Louvre which was right near the most amazing patisserie called “Tartine, Toi et Moi.”

She sent a formal email to her boss requesting time off due to a family emergency. Then she purchased her ticket, bumping herself up to first class because WHY THE HELL NOT?

Wrapped in the ugly blanket and holding her half-empty wine glass, she went back to the living room.

“You missed a really good ending. It was a surprise ending, totally not what I expected.”

“I leave for Paris in two weeks. I’ll be gone for ten days.”

“What?”

Photo: Jane Fonda, 1961, Cafe de Flore

Where Do We Go From Here?

With over 1000 emails in her inbox, Jessica felt completely defeated. She began deleting, realizing – to her embarrassment – that she subscribed to some very dubious self-help newsletters. Within twenty minutes she was down to 400 emails, flagging them all with different colors just for fun.

Color-coded flagged emails. What a ridiculous world we live in.

Scrolling to the bottom, she found a bunch of old photos. Most of them were of Jessica and her now deceased three dogs.

“Three Dead Dogs, a memoir by Jessica Sholmes,” she said out loud, as if she was the book reviewer for The New York Times.

Her first dog, Lexie, had been a chunky low-rider who ate anything and everything. Once, unbeknownst to Jessica, she had scarfed the tiny end of a smoked joint from underneath a park bench. At home, she sat on the couch dazed and unresponsive.

“She’s dying! She must have eaten something poisonous!”

At the emergency vet hospital the Doctor said:

“Don’t worry. She’s just high. She’ll make a full recovery.”

For the love of god.

Their second dog Leroy, who overlapped with Lexie, had been a 100 pound Boxer mix who thought he was Jessica’s husband. He barely tolerated her actual husband, Jim, always giving him side-eye:

“I’m her real man and don’t you forget it.”

Every night Leroy tried sleeping between them; they’d eventually given up trying to get him off the bed. He slept horizontally between their two bodies, creating a “no touch” zone, forcing Jessica and Jim to wave goodnight to each other from across the king bed. Lexie insisted on sleeping with her head on Jessica’s pillow. If Jessica so much as coughed, Lexie nosed her face, staring at her as if she was watching over her puppy.

Oh my god our dogs are crazy. We are crazy.

Lexie and Leroy died a couple years apart. Her husband insisted they take a dog break so they could visit Portugal and Spain. But they never traveled. Well, unless you count that one trip to the country where they stayed at the crazy Bed & Breakfast. The owners, two pointy looking sisters who wore matching denim smocks, forced Jessica and Jim to eat their gluten free heart-shaped pancakes for breakfast. Sitting with them for the entire meal, they spoke non-stop about their beloved long-deceased parents.

“Oh My God these ladies are complete freaks. I bet we don’t make it out of here alive,” Jessica had whispered to Jim.

Eventually she convinced Jim to adopt another dog, this time an elderly American Staffordshire named Jerry. Jerry loved UPS trucks and regularly jumped in the open passenger side when they were parked on their street. One beloved driver had even taken him for a spin around the block.

When Jerry died, Jim had declared:
“No. More. Dogs.”

Jessica was crying now. Jim called out:

“You okay in there? What’s going on?”

“I’m fine. Everything is fine. I’m just going down memory lane looking at dog photos.”

“You know what we decided: no more dogs. From now on it’s just you and me babe,” he said from the living room.

“Yep, I remember. No more dogs. Just quality time together,” she answered, her voice quivering.

“Should we order pizza tonight? I have a hankering for pepperoni pizza,” he said.

“I’ve never heard you use the word hankering. But sure, why not. As long as we order a salad too so I don’t feel like a completely failure.”

“Perfecto.”

Jim loved using the word perfecto and it drove Jessica fucking nuts.

Leaving her dead dog photos, Jessica went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. Not 5 ounces. I mean really, who the hell drinks a 5 ounce glass of wine? She poured a real person glass of wine, which was probably closer to 10 ounces. Sitting down at their kitchen table she flipped through Parenting Magazine.

“Jim? Why is Parenting Magazine on our kitchen table?”

“I have no idea. It just came with the mail. I ordered the food, it’ll be here in 30 minutes.”

“K.”

Jessica looked at photographs of happy looking couples with their children.

She wondered if she had any good eggs left. She was forty-four. They were probably crappy eggs. Underdog eggs. Eggs that you didn’t really want hatched. But they could adopt. I mean they were fortunate enough to have plenty of money. They had a nice house with a backyard and there was a good elementary school within walking distance of them.

Jessica sipped her wine. If they adopted a baby she would have to become a 5 ounce glass kind of woman. Or maybe it was the opposite: maybe once the kid was asleep you drank a stiff scotch, watching Netflix with the baby monitor next to you.

Over pizza and salad they discussed which new Apple TV series to watch that evening.

“What about adopting a child? Not necessarily a baby, but a young child. Or, even an older child. I mean why should we discriminate? It’s so much harder for older children to get adopted.”

“Did I miss something? We were just deciding which show to watch tonight and now we’re talking about adopting a fucking kid? How many glasses of wine have you had?”

Jim looked angry. Like scary angry.

“Is this because you were reading that stupid Parenting Magazine? What the hell is wrong with you Jessica? Adoption is a serious issue, you just don’t bring it up casually over pizza on a Saturday night. And last I remember we decided years ago not to have children. For fuck’s sake.”

Getting up abruptly from the table, Jim took his plate to the living room where he turned the TV back on.

Jesus. That anger was intense. True, she had not properly segued to the topic, she had just sprung it on him. But still, his reaction frightened her.

After cleaning up Jessica went upstairs to her office. She googled “adopting a child in Seattle” and started pouring over websites. She discovered a highly respected Adoption Coordinator who acted as a kind of personal assistant to help navigate the complicated system. Jessica set up a meeting with her. First consultations were one hour and cost $200, non-refundable. Fine. Done and done. She would meet with the coordinator and get a feel for the whole process. Of course she wouldn’t mention that her husband had gone off the rails at the mere mention of adopting, that would tarnish their file forever.

The next morning Jessica awoke to a note on the bed that read, “Gone Fishing. Back Tonight. Jim.”

Wow. He was mad.

Of course Jim didn’t fish, so he’d probably gone off on a day trip somewhere where he could sulk and rage, maybe to a small town pub.

The Sunday farmer’s market was on and Jessica hurried to get there in time to score one of their delicious strawberry scones. Everyone else went for the fresh organic produce, but Jessica went for the baked goods. Of course she piled her basket high with leafy green things too, but tucked underneath were scones, cookies and croissants.

Back at home Jessica made herself coffee, then sat outside with her plate of carbs. As she finished the scone her memory flash-backed to ten years ago:

She and Jim had met and married in their mid-thirties, the last in their circle to wed. A blind date had led to a year of intense dating, leading to a six month engagement, culminating in a beautiful outdoor wedding.

Holding her coffee mug, Jessica froze:

She had fallen in love with Jim on their very first date. He smelled like ivory soap and made her feel like the most dazzling woman on planet earth. After sleeping together on their fourth date, while lying in a tangle of grey striped sheets, Jim had revealed that he did not want kids. In that moment all Jessica wanted was Jim, so she had answered:

“Me either. But I would love to have dogs.”

Fucking Ivory Soap Smell. Go Fuck Yourself.

She started crying.

Jessica had always wanted a child. Ever since she could remember she had wanted one child, not two, not three, but one. One had always seemed civilized, like you could still have a life and not be run completely ragged. She had never not wanted a child. She had never not wanted a child until the night she told Jim she did not want a child.

Fuckety Fuck Fuck Fuck.

Still crying, Jessica picked up her cell, calling her mom:

“Darling, are you okay?”

“Ya, I’m fine, it’s just-”

“Ok good because our mimosas have arrived, I’m out for brunch with the girls. Can I call you later?”

“Should I adopt a child?”

“Oh My God, girls – they’re adopting a child! Congratulations! Finally I’ll be a grandmother!”

Jessica could hear her mother’s friends in the background clinking glasses.

“Delilah said she wants to throw you a baby shower-”

“Mom, I just asked if you think I should adopt a child. I didn’t say we were adopting one. I’m actually having kind of a meltdown right now, I-”

“Sweetie, just do it. What are you waiting for? I’ve practically got one foot in the grave. I’ll call you later and of course you can count on your father and I to babysit once a week. Well, maybe once every two weeks. Love you. Byeeeee!”

Jesus Christ.

“FUUUUUUUCK!” Jessica yelled a little too loudly.

Her neighbour, Dorothy, poked her head out her back door.

“Jessica, what’s all the ruckus about?”

“I just realized that I want a child even though ten years ago I told Jim that I didn’t. Now I don’t know what to do.”

“Can you accidentally get pregnant?” Dorothy suggested, taking a puff of her menthol.

“Not really. I use an IUD and they rarely fail. Plus, I think my eggs are past their due date.”

“Adopt then. Adoption is a wonderful thing.”

“I know right? That’s what I want to do, but Jim-”

“Oh never mind Jim, he’ll come around. Remember when he didn’t want you planting those rose bushes because he hated thorns? But he ended up loving them. It’ll be the same with having a child.”

Dorothy took another puff then waved good-bye.

Okay, but I can’t take advice from anyone who still smokes Menthols.

Jessica texted her best friend Michelle, asking her to call when she had time. She knew Michelle was currently overwhelmed with her in-laws visiting, a new puppy and two kids under eight.

“Love u. Will call asap. Freak scene here. My in-laws r insufferable. Hope u r ok. Xoxo.”

Jessica finished her coffee while further researching adoption and found several helpful blogs and websites.

Trying not to fret about Jim, she spent the day keeping busy. Catching up on some work, vacuuming, planting daisies in the front yard, dropping off some cookies to Dorothy and then later making Jim’s favorite meal: spaghetti and meat balls.

Jessica’s eyes were puffy from crying on and off throughout the afternoon. At seven o’clock, when Jim still wasn’t home, she lay down with a warm flaxseed eye pillow.

Michelle called back:

“What happened?”

“I think I want a child.”

“Well of course you want a child. You’ve always wanted a child – one child – since we were like twelve years old. But in your haze of mad love you told Jim you didn’t want kids and you’ve kept up the lie for ten years.”

“When you put it like that it sounds awful, I sound awful.”

“You’re not awful, you were just wildly in love and scared of losing him. And over the years you buried your desire for a child so deeply that you kinda convinced yourself you never wanted one in the first place. But it sounds like you’ve just had some sort of amazing emotional breakthrough – what happened?”

“Well, I know this sounds insane, but I think the breakthrough was triggered by reading Parenting Magazine-“

“You bought Parenting Magazine?”

“No no, it randomly appeared in our mailbox. So I started flipping through it and it just brought it all up for me.”

“Like a sign from the universe. Not that I believe in that crap, but-”

“I know, it does kind of feel like a sign from the universe, even though I don’t really believe in that stuff either. And so I started thinking about my eggs which are, you know kinda old-timers and then it just came to me: we should adopt – maybe even a child because they get overlooked. So I brought it up over dinner.”

“Nice timing, out of nowhere.”

“I know, I know. Jim is furious. He left early this morning and hasn’t returned yet.”

“Well, that is Jim’s MO – he just disappears – he’s passive aggressive. He’ll come back tonight, don’t worry.”

“Hopefully. But the thing is I’m really serious. I’ve already booked a consultation with an Adoption Coordinator.”

“That sounds like a made up job title.”

“No, it’s a real thing. She comes highly recommended. The adoption paperwork is insane, she helps facilitate things.”

“Can she convince your husband to adopt? Cause that would be a real thing.”

“Very funny.”

“Sorry. Listen, you’ve been watching Sandra and I raise our kids so you’ve seen the challenges up close. You know that raising a child is fucking hard. But it’s also the best thing ever and you would be an incredible mother. Not gonna lie though, I’m a lil’ worried that your emotional breakthrough might blow up your marriage. I don’t think Jim will change his mind.”

“Let’s see. I’m so drained. Thanks for talking love. Good luck with the in-laws.”

“Good luck with Jim. Keep me posted. Love you.”

Watching a few episodes of the old Charlie’s Angels, her go-to comfort show, Jessica kept her ear tuned to the door. Surely Jim would come home, if not for Jessica then for his Monday morning zoom meeting.

Later, showered and in bed wearing Jim’s vintage New Order tee-shirt, Jessica prayed to God:

Dear God,
I know it’s been awhile and I apologize for my delinquency. But I’m in a bit of a situation here and I’m wondering if you can help me out. Can you please bring Jim home safely? I’m starting to worry that something happened to him. Like maybe he went to the country and did that thing he likes to do where he pretends he’s an outdoorsy Patagonia guy even though he’s totally not. And maybe he walked in a dangerous part of the forest and was attacked by a bear or a pack of wild dogs. I just need him to come home.
Oh and also – sorry to ask for help with two things – I need him to have had a complete change of heart and be 100% into adopting a child with me. That’s all, just those two things. Thank you so much. I hope you are well and that all your angel friends are well too.
I love you. Good night.

Jessica turned off her bedside table lamp and closed her eyes. She didn’t think she would be able to sleep, but the moment her head hit her Blissy satin pillowcase she was out cold.

At 2:00 AM, after eating left over spaghetti and meat balls and taking a shower in the basement bathroom so as not to wake Jessica, Jim slid into bed.

“You’re home, thank God. I was so worried.”

“I know, I’m sorry babe. I should have texted you back. I just needed some space to – as you always say – process my feelings. I love you, you’re everything to me. I know that sounds corny as fuck, but it’s true. And I just want us to enjoy this beautiful life together. So I booked us a trip to San Francisco at the end of the month, 4 days at a super swank hotel. Just us being happy, silly tourists together. We’ll ride the cable cars, check out the Victorian architecture that you love – it’s gonna be perfect.”

“Wow, I can’t believe you did that, thank you. I can hardly wait.”

They kissed.

After the kiss the silence was not soft and lovely, it was heavy and sad, at least it felt that way to Jessica. All the words left un-said and the emotions that went with the words, were swept under their Crate and Barrel shag rug.

Jessica was now wide awake. The elephant in the room had jammed its long trunk into her heart and as she lay on the satin pillow case, the one that was supposed to prevent wrinkles, she thought:

I asked for a child and he gave me a trip to California.
Where the hell do we go from here?

Photo Credit: “sophsoph” on Pinterest

Spaghetti Can Flowers

Receiving wild flowers in a spaghetti can is not something a girl forgets, especially when they arrive with bacon, wrapped old-school style by the butcher.

“Mary Ellen?”

I was staying at a B & B in small-town Quebec when I heard the door knock. Checking that I was presentable, I put on my mask and opened it.

A thin, sun-hardened arm reached out and passed me the flowers. They had clearly been arranged with care, not simply tossed in the can.

“These are so beautiful, thank you, I-“

The other thin, sun-hardened arm reached out and passed me a package wrapped in brown paper.

“It’s for your breakfast with your friend. You’re going to visit her today, right? It’s bacon.”

Wearing a black kaftan, hair up in a bun, mask on, I stood holding the flowers and bacon. The moment felt surreal and for a second I felt like an actress in a scene from a quirky indie film.

Standing in front of me was the man I had dated when I was just twenty-one years old. Now, thirty years later, he stood before me with these sweet offerings.

I had traveled to rural Quebec for a late summer visit with one of my dearest girlfriends. Realizing my old boyfriend lived nearby, I had reached out to him thinking it would be nice to have a coffee and catch up. But that’s not quite what happened…

I ended up sitting on a lawn chair, in a field behind a workshop, drinking wine from a dirty mason jar. An alarming-looking fire in a metal barrel and a giant pirate’s flag were the only decor. Joining us were his ex brother-in-law and a fast-talking man wearing a straw fedora.

At various points in the evening the guys took turns urinating outside.

“If you need to go pee you can just do it out here, don’t worry, we won’t look and you’ll be safe. I’ll protect you,” said my ex.

Wait what? Peeing outside? What is happening?

On the walk over to his artist meets Hells’ Angels living quarters, I had struggled to connect with the man I once knew. He had a hard time making eye contact, was fidgety and clearly drunk.

I learned he had a grown daughter whom he deeply loved. That he knew how to survive in the wilderness (yikes, why?) and had spent time in Ireland. He’d also worked for years on large ships and loved to write poetry. That’s what I got, just a broad outline. But there were details. The details were in the scent he gave off: a blend of grief and complete despair.

“You know me. I’ve been trying to kill myself for years,” he said casually, just like someone might say, “you know me, I love ice cream.”

His pain completely overwhelmed me. I felt like any second it might swallow me up whole. Part of me wanted to run – fast – away from the field. But I also knew that his pain deserved to be seen, his pain deserved to be acknowledged. And so I sat in the field, drinking wine from a dirty mason jar and bore witness to it.

Later that night, alone at my B & B, I was overcome with sorrow. It shattered my twenty-one year old’s heart to see him so broken. I remembered him being wild and troubled when we dated, but also kind and romantic. One time he surprised me at the bus station:
I was returning from visiting a friend and there he was, hands in his pockets, staring at the windows trying to locate me, his eyes lighting up when he saw me. I distinctly remember thinking: “I can’t believe he’s here!” There were no cell phones or emojis back then, but if there were I would have texted my girlfriends:
“OMG he’s waiting at the station for me!💖😍🤸‍♀️👏💕”

Being presented with flowers and bacon the morning after such a crushing evening was not something I was prepared for. But, the moment was tender and real and awkward and despite the sadness I felt it was also beautiful.

#trauma #oldboyfriends #lifestories #quebec