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While I don’t remember the day you were born, I do remember the day you first entered my life. It was a cold, crisp winter day almost 7 years ago. The air was sharp and biting, igniting a fire in my lungs with every breath inhaled and manifesting a exquisite tendril of mist, a translucent, hazy plume of dragon’s whisper, with every exhale. I’d watch as it vanished and reappeared with each breath. A misty metronome, the beats quickening with my excitement. With my swelling heart.

I can still hear the snow squeaking with every step. That sound, letting me know I was getting closer to you. Distance evaporating. Just like the evidence of the last breath. It was a magical day. A day of new beginnings.

And then I saw you.

You were so little. Tiny. You fit in my hands. You held so much promise. So much potential. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. Magnetic.

Would I be able to handle the responsibility? It wasn’t a small job. The feedings. The cleanings. The nurturing. It was a life-long responsibility, and I knew it.

Was I up for that type of challenge? Would I be able to look past myself, my ego, my self-centredness to care for another being that needed so much care?

Like all people thrust suddenly into this position, I was nervous and excited at the same time. That giddy sensation deep in the pit of my stomach, flip-flopping like a carnival ride controlled by that teenager who has just discovered that pure love for the first time, unable to smoothly transition from start to stop, from slow to go. Their mind focused on the new sensations of love. Jerky and sudden. Zig. Zag. Bursting.

Time passed.

And it was clear how much I loved you. How much I love you. You were taken care of. You flourished. Growing big and strong. Robust. Anyone who saw you would comment on your health. Your strength and vigor. You made so many people smile with your antics.

But with this passage of time, things changed. I had to move. There wasn’t enough room for you. With broken heart, I had to send you away. To a good place. To a safe place. To a place I knew you’d be well taken care of. Likely even loved as I’ve loved you.

It would be temporary. Until I could get you back. Until we could be together again.

We stood face to face and I told you all of this. Gently whispered it to you, my voice trembling as the words tumbled out, tears cresting over my downcast eyes. In your hunched, defeated stance I knew you heard me. Understood me. Even if you couldn’t say the words. You looked so sad. And it killed me inside. I was eviscerated in a way that words can’t describe, the bottom falling, drifting into the dark abyss.

The months passed, almost four of them now, and we have finally been reunited. Today. My eyes lit up when I saw you, the joy crinkling up the corners of my eyes. Real joy. The purest joy. Excitement like that first day washed over me, bathing me in euphoria. You had grown so much. Holding you in my hands, I could feel your heft. You’d eaten well. Drank plenty. I knew it then, and know it now, you were in very good hands. It was for your own good, and it was evident.

But we are together again, now.

Mowgli, my not so little yucca plant, I missed you.

It’s been a few days now and still the horrors have not faded from my mind’s eye.

Every time I walk by that exact same place, I get pulled back in a searing flash. That not-so-distant reality. Vivid. Jarring.

Recently, I was exposed to a side of me that was new and frightening. A side I wasn’t quite aware I possessed. Unknown. Hidden. Lurking. It just snuck up on me. A little exciting. A little bit sinister.

It was that dance between pain and pleasure. That intricate web between finding yourself. And losing yourself. It was a journey of self discovery.

While purchasing all the groceries I desired at my local big box grocer, I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in the bottom of my left foot. Intense. Insistent. Incontrovertible.

I had to stop. A momentary pause to quiet the gasp that nearly escaped.  A brief sojourn from the dizzying, electric shock that coursed through me.

It felt as though my soul was being eviscerated by a thousand million blades, each with a  million little jagged edges, beveled to a razor point.

I knew instantly that it was the work of a hardened, stone-faced being.

I knew I couldn’t crush it. That I would have to find a way to release it from within.

But I didn’t. Not immediately.

Even though the unyielding pain surged with every left foot strike to the hard, polished grocery store floor.

Relentless.

Conflicted, I knew I should stop and seek resolution. But I couldn’t.

Every step awakened something deep inside me. Much like poking at a canker sore in one’s mouth.

I sought the pain. I sought the punishment that each step brought forth. It hurt so good.

I felt alive.

Until I could bear it no more.

I stopped my journey in the pharmaceutical aisle, surrounded by the sweet comforts of Tylenol and Advil, band aids, and freezing gels.

A quick fix for what cut so deep. A refuge from the brutal torment.

I pulled off my boot, turned it upside down, and listened for the sweet, soothing sound of release.

Clink.

And with that, I was unchained from the bondage of pain once again.

To finish buying my produce, with a new found perspective on the pain and pleasure.

Sometimes in life we can find ourselves stuck between two choices – to act or not to act – both of which have very different, yet very real and important consequences. If we choose one, we cannot choose the other.

By taking action, we have the potential to set off a cascade of events that slots us into one camp, to firmly affix upon ourselves a label that may be difficult to shrug off, potentially forever.

A choice that will follow us, become the very fibre of our being, that becomes us. A new identity. Not chosen, but given.

By choosing to enact the other option, which by it’s very nature is grounded in inaction, in omission, we avoid the association and stigma, but lose our most valuable and finite possession – time. We will never get that back. Ever. It would be lost. Gone. Conceded to the ether. And as we age, we can certainly understand the inherent value of said time, which keeps on ticking. Ticking. Ticking.

What would you choose?

On one such occasion, back on Dec 27th, 2016, my dear readers, I chose inaction. I made that conscious decision. I sacrificed my invaluable time. And I have yet to regain it.

I still remember the events of that day clearly, as though it were yesterday and not 553 days ago. While today I am in the midst of a heat wave, then I was in the midst of a deep freeze.

This is how it all went down:

I chose not honk at the guy in front of me, who had stopped in the middle of the intersection for no reason, in the middle of executing a left turn, safely protected by an advanced green. Who didn’t care for his time. Or mine.

I didn’t deliver that blast of sound, cathartic in its wave of compression and rarefaction, piercing, time-saving.

Because doing so would have acknowledged the PETA protestors bordering the intersection, who were holding up signs asking us to honk if we support their cause.

Instead, my hand lay dormant and my horn lay silent.

I missed my turn.

Kept my identity.

And lost my time.

It was late. Well past the whiching hour. By which I mean the hour by which I should have been asleep for I need all the help I can with beauty. The balmy waves of heat rose almost visibly from the asphalt, stored up during the day to be released anew, crinkling and shimmering in the pale halo of street lamp incandescence.  I could feel its gentle, sweltering caress across my bony shoulders, holding me in its soft, yet fiery grasp, enveloping me, the overwhelming sensations making me perspire. I luxuriated in its hold. Dizzying. Every fibre engaged, on edge. The two of us in that dance of ages. Alive.

I know you’re wondering how I found myself here, heading towards the train tracks.

At this hour.

The backstory: a friend had messaged just moments ago saying they were in town and nearby, and would I like to meet up for a quick drink. Though it appeared to be a work night, I was booked off the next morning. So I said yes. A rare feat of spontaneity. Perhaps this will be a sign of things to come?

Within moments of confirming the location of our meet, a mere 18 minute walk away, I had put on pants. And a shirt, my collar turned to the heat and humidity instead of the cold and damp. Dressed to face the world, I strode confidently out the door and into the Toronto wild. The route with the shortest distance was a straight line – as the crow flies. Because I’m not a crow, that was not an option for me. I had to follow the road most taken. Which is what led to me to the back roads. Towards the train tracks.

And I walked through narrow, cobblestoneless streets. With the ever present heat as my company.

There was only the sound of silence around.

Until that too was broken. Shattered.

A voice in the darkness.

I froze. Adrenaline surged through me. My heart, its thunderous pulsing felt against my rib cage. Its pace quickened. My sympathetic response heightened, due to the isolation, the stillness around. I could feel the small hairs on the back of my neck rise, the little arrector pili tugging away, responding to the stimuli. I could feel the long hairs on my legs attempt the same erection but unable to overcome their own weight, so they remained at ease. The even longer hairs on my head couldn’t move as they were tightly coiled in a serpentine bun fixed sexily on the top of my head. My hands balled into tight, defensive fists, my bladder letting me know it too was ready to release if the need arose. Fight or flight engaged, alas there was only one option for me where I stood.

I cocked my head to the right, tilting my left ear towards the source. My stronger ear. I wasn’t mistaken. It was a little voice. A young voice. Too young to have developed the timbre to enable stratified identification but with a pitch that enabled almost instantaneous location identification. A voice of four or five years of age. My eyes, having been potentiated by adrenaline quickly adjusted to the new field of vision. I could see a little silhouette up high in a tiny second story window, backlit by faint light.

I had initially heard distress. But in that same moment, echoic hearing clarified everything for me. There was no danger. I was safe.

The voice was calling to me. Entreating me to respond.

“Hi Mr Poopy Head.”

My head tilted to the left.

“Bye Mr Poopy Head.”

I was compelled. Voiceless, an automaton with no agency, no control, no self respect. My right hand sliced through the thick, soupy atmosphere, and waved. It would have made the Queen proud.

Hello and Goodby.

About four years ago on this day – okay, exactly four years ago to this day – when I was roused from my night nap at roughly 3 am by what sounded like a castrati spider monkey choir dueling a howler monkey a cappella start up on my balcony, I realized that something was amiss.

Luckily for me, it was only the neighborhood raccoons hosting an underground cage fight to the death-ish.

After a moment, deafening silence took over. This was strange.

Perturbed and with interest piqued, I  sauntered over in my luxurious and imaginary night attire, which, for the record, clearly accentuates all my curves, and drew back the balcony curtain.

And there, in all his lazy glory, was Roncy the Racoon (either II through IV, definitely not I or V) sleeping.

If sleeping during the night isn’t considered time theft for a nocturnal beast, I don’t know what is.

This wasn’t right. The balance of nature was tipped towards the unnatural. I had to take action and restore the natural order. So I scared the lazy ass back to work by flailing my arms and throwing my legs askew while hopping to and fro, grunting and growling my displeasure.

Good thing I had turned the lights on prior to this.

And you’re welcome neighbours.

After absconding from work early today, and sneaking in a short 3 hour nap, followed by a session at the gym, it was time to do the needful.

We needed groceries. At the very least, we needed food for tonight’s dinner.

On initial consideration, and from the environmental data collected from my walk to the gym, we thought we would take a nice stroll over to the local grocery store. The 15 minute walk would do wonders. It was, after all, a beautiful night out and we had plenty of time to make the 11 pm closing. And walking is cardio, right?

Stepping outside, Mother Nature had other ideas for us. It was raining. And by raining I don’t mean the gentle raindrops that fall delicately from the sky, embracing their momentary suspension before they tenderly caress your upturned face, joy abounding. I’m talking about those fat drops that come at you bro. The ones that sting and burn. That, in days gone by, would have torn and scratched at the sides of limestone buildings with their acid bite.

Now usually that wouldn’t have been a problem but today was White Friday. And that means I was wearing my favourite white limestone shirt because who knows who you may bump into in the produce aisles. So it was decided – we would drive.

Upon arriving at the store, it was fairly quiet, the last hour before closing usually is. We made our rounds of the perimeter and collected the essentials for dinner, or at least the stuff we didn’t already have at home: some veggies, some fruits, that random grapefruit bubbly water that’s always on sale. The usual.

Then we made our way to the last of the perimeter staple aisles. The ice cream section.

This is where our Friday night changed.

Today, for some reason, both the Drumstick bars and the Magnum bars were on sale. At the same time. She wanted knobby chocolate Drumsticks. I wanted the big, girthy caramel Magnum. The standoff began. The Drumsticks were $3.00 off. The Magnums, only $2.00 off. There was a difference in end cost of $1.00, in favour of the Drumsticks.

And then the maths…There were 4 Drumsticks in the box but only 3 Magnums. Calculating price per delicious, the Drumsticks had an edge. Not even a slight one. A big tasty one. What were we to do?

Well, fear not, we did what all responsible adults do. We bought them both. And saved a total of $5.00.

With our basket now full, and averting what could have been a relationship-ending impasse, we made our way to the checkout.

It’s never that easy, though, is it?

As we rounded the corner, it happened again.

But this time, far more deadly in scope with potentially greater disastrous consequences. We found ourselves in a true Canadian Standoff.

There he was, with his product cart, filled to the brim with, as expected, product, ready to replenish all the product which had been depleted during the day. He managed to screech to a halt, mere inches from us, just as we managed the same. The tires of his cart leaving skid marks of the second worst kind. Our shoes, leaving none, but finding purchase on the slick floor. We three, facing each other. A triad.

In that moment, eyes rapidly tracked upwards, connecting. Communicating in the absence of words. It was understood. Then the chorus of voices shattering the silence. Breaking the stillness.

“Sorry” in triplicate stereo. Staccato.

And no one could move. We were fixed. Locked in the battle of ages in the true North, strong and free. And then the voices all rose again. Firmer. Each unyielding. Each one, fully sure in its offering.

“I’m sorry”

“No, I am the sorriest”

“No, it is I who is sorry.”

A true Canadian Standoff. And here we will remain forevermore.

Because no one ever gets the last “sorry” without a fight.