Uncategorized

It was a shade before 8 am on Sunday when I inched perfectly into the parking spot.

The lot was barren, desolate, as were the streets I’d so recently navigated.

The sky was dark and there was a chill that permeated the air.

It was one of the first days I had to fire up the heater, letting the warm air blast against my face, alternating using the vents on either side of the steering wheel column to warm up my chilled hands.

I’d made good time from home to my destination, a small solace for such an early journey.

The type of journey that forced me to put on real pants. Hard pants. Not soft pants.

My passenger, sitting quietly in the back seat, was not pleased to have been forced to make this journey with me.

Initially there had been loud, plaintive complaints, but as we started to move, I was met with a stony silence, my entreaties falling heavily between us, like throwing stones into a dark, cold lake.

Plink.

Ripples full of potential. Then nothing.

I’m not sure what was worse. Conversation or the silent treatment.

I hadn’t really been given much of a choice. The trip was a necessity.

We were the first ones, the only ones, in the lot.

But that wouldn’t last long.

Within a few minutes, a second vehicle pulled up diagonally across from me. And a few minutes after that, two others arrived, one on either side, sandwiching me.

I called the number prominently displayed on the front window.

COVID protocol. No one was allowed inside. Make the call and they will come and get you.

After a brief chat, verifying and confirming information, I was advised that someone would be out shortly. My phone flashed 8:06 am.

And then we continued our wait in silence, my attempts at initiating conversation falling flat for another 10 minutes until the young woman approached and motioned for my passenger to follow her, saving me from debasing myself further.

Alone in the car, having only had my large morning coffee, I let my mind and eyes wander.

It was at this point that my gaze me that of the gentleman parked diagonal to me.

From the expression on his mustachioed face, his morning had started similar to mine. He was in his mid to late 50’s, almost certainly of Italian heritage as my astute detecting noted, along with assistance from all the Italian paraphernalia in and on his car. His darker complexion lined with wrinkles and grooves gave the impression man who had faced the elements for most of his life.

We exchanged a nod, the nod of recognition although we were unknown to each other up until that point.

Sawubona.

I see you.

The Zulu greeting that captures more than hello, the recognizes the essence of who we are. Our humanity.

And then we waited. And waited. And waited some more.

More cars arrived. The lot now full. Overflowing. Cars seeking space in the lots next door.

In this time, a quasi friendship developed. Unspoken. What else takes place in on quiet Sunday when tethered to one’s car in a parking spot with another directly in your line of sight?

A friendship without words. A tacit understanding.

An hour or so passed. My bladder, which I’d steadfastly ignored to this point, would no longer take my inaction. The pressure was intense. Building. Rising. It could no longer be tuned out.

I had to pee, or there would be a most embarrassing accident. And a soiled seat.

In normal times, this wouldn’t have been an issue. But we’re still in the midst of the Time of The Covids and most places have strict “no walk in” policies. To add to that, my micturitional urgency reared itself so early on Sunday morning, when most establishments that possibly offered respite, were not open, yet.

I didn’t want to lose my parking spot, but I vaguely remembered a coffee shop at the end of the block, or thereabouts, so I decided to stretch my legs, and walk. Hoping that this gentle, rhythmic physical activity would soothe the painful cramping from within.

I was correct. There was a Second Cup a few minutes away with a restroom for public use. Salvation.

Now, I’m a one coffee guy, and had already imbibed in my version of the heavily sweetened bitter brew, but the guilt of having used their facilities urged me to purchase another – a small holiday blend with three sugars and two creams.

With cup in hand, I strode back to my car. I noticed my new friend was gone. His spot taken by someone else. The parking lot growing ever fuller.

I settled back in my seat, Spotify playing my 70’s road trip mix, even though I was unmoving in the year 2021.

Until the second bolus of caffeine got to me.

Restless.

My legs shaking, nerves firing. I had to move. Shifting the Bluetooth connection from my car back to my earbuds, I popped them in and decided to pace back and forth along the adjacent sidewalk.

It was during this frenetic back and forth that I noticed my friend had returned. This time with another passenger. I presumed his wife. His original spot taken, he managed to find a spot in the next lot.

We shared another silent nod, this time of deeper recognition.

The morning had dissolved, and time on its never ending march, strode into noon.

About 15 minutes after his second arrival, the same woman who’d come out of the building earlier on my arrival, went to him and his passenger. They exited the vehicle and followed her through a long stretch of laneway between the two buildings towards the back.

This seemed odd to me. Out of place. No one had done that for the past four hours.

As the thought entered my mind, it vanished, and I was caught up in the music that used to make me smile, softly pulsing in my ears.

A few minutes later, as if by some divine provenance, or algorithmic intervention, “Easy” by the Commodores started to play.

I’m easy like Sunday morning

If only this Sunday morning were easier, I remember thinking to myself.

The next song, one of my favourites, rolled in.

The distinctive sound of Don McLean singing “American Pie”.

As his distinct words poured over the music, I saw my friend and his passenger heading back towards me through the laneway, side by side, with a box like item between the two of them.

As they approached, I could see clearly, and something caught hard in my throat.

Our eyes met again. Barely a nod.

This time the exchange was different.

His eyes red. Bloodshot. Pained. So much pain.

He placed the empty pet carrier into his car.

They both took their seats.

I could see him curled forward in the driver’s seat, his rugged, weathered hands covering his face, his shoulders shaking.

As he managed to compose himself and drive away from the Emergency Veterinary Hospital, I heard Don McLean quietly sing…

The day the music died.

Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash

As I was led to my seat, the aroma of the freshly sizzling meat patties from the grill intermingled with that of crispy, salted fries from the deep fryer. The delectable odorous particles wafted deep inside my nose, passing through my turbinate bones, arousing the carnivoral desires deep inside me.

I could feel my mouth water, preparing for the upcoming feast. I had to swallow a few times, blinking my eyes. An automatic reflex lest the drool dribbled down my bearded chin.

As my server left with my order, I was once again alone with my thoughts as I gazed, in that unseeing, unfocused way, around the bustling room.

To those around who would glance at me, they would see contentment.

A man in his element. A man about to enjoy an experience of a lifetime. A man with a big hunger.

It couldn’t have been longer than 15 minutes when my server reappeared with my meal.

“The Big Dirty Burger. Bon Appétit”

It was touted as one of the best burgers you’d ever taste. Celebrated. Vaunted. Award winning.

How much of this was hope?

How much was hype?

And more importantly, how much was real?

With the hefty price tag to match its hefty weight – tipping the scales at a whopping 1.5 lbs – it was a behemoth, and one of those special meals not often indulged.

It came on its own gargantuan silver platter, the massive burger nestled comfortably upon a layered bed of non-GMO, and ostensibly E. coli free, crispy green lettuce. It stood tall and proud. A leaning tower, but not of pizza. The perfectly toasted sesame bun topping the multiple layers of delectable innards. The redness of the tomato slices accentuated by the contrasting deep green of the thinly sliced sandwich pickles and the pale green of the lettuce. The perfectly melted provolone cheese, pale moonlight, caressing the three different patties like a wetsuit, every curve and ridge coated in ooey gooey goodness.

A work of culinary art, visually stunning.

The senses tantalized. My senses tantalized. I was ready.

The Big Dirty Burger would be mine.

I held the beast in my hands and opened my mouth to take a bite, instinctively compressing the soft, warm bun down against the overflowing insides, keeping it all together, the medley of flavour linked forever, allowing the juices to seep over the edges and trail down my hands.

The first bite is the deepest. An electric current pulsed through me, head to toe. Alive. Alert. Awoken.

…But something was off. It was wrong. It was all wrong.

The flavour was off.

I took another bite to check.

Still wrong.

Disappointment now coursed through me, replacing the pure joy and exuberance that existed in that space mere moments before.

The sadness of biting into a chocolate chip cookie, only to discover, those were not chocolate chips, but raisins.

That disappointment.

However, I couldn’t quite articulate why it was off, couldn’t quite express what was wrong.

But it was, this much I knew. Certain of it. Never having been this certain before.

Suddenly, it struck me.

The missing flavour. The missing ingredient.

After a year and a half, my taste buds craved it at every meal.

My special umami.

The distinct taste of hand sanitizer.

Photo by Sol Ingrao on Unsplash

“Is this seat taken?”

It was a simple question, spoken gently, quietly.

My head snaps up, looking up from my phone, where my attention was focused.

“Uh, nope, it’s all yours.”

The words tumble out in rush from my mouth before I have a chance to actually take stock of the situation. I wasn’t really feeling up to sharing my space today. I have a lot of “work” to do and I have a sinking suspicion that this would be an unwelcome interruption to my flow.

OK, so maybe I don’t actually have any work, but I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

I get my bearings as I watch his hand shake ever so slightly as he carefully places his coffee on the table. I can see the veins on the back of his hands snaking across his sinewy tendons. His almost translucent skin, loosely covering the gnarled bumps of his joints, remind me of the recent YouTube video I’d watched on Japanese rice paper-making. There’s a simple gold watch, that adorns his thin wrists, the hands froze in time.

He takes a moment to deliberately arrange the flimsy brown paper napkin that holds his Boston Cream doughnut next to his coffee with one hand while the other grasps the back of the chair he’s inquired about with a subdued fierceness, trying to hide how much the chair assists him in keeping his balance.

In what seems like an eternity, he pulls out the chair from its resting spot, the feet make a faint scraping sound across the polished cement floor. Everything takes place in slow motion – as though he’s moving through a pool of molasses, time expanding to fill the space.

I pretend to go back to my phone, my head bent again, but my eyes remain fixed on this older gentleman. Watching. Observing. And, somewhat unkindly if I’m honest with myself, trying to find a graceful way out of having any sort of coffee shop conversation with this complete stranger.

He’s dressed in dark slacks and a crisp white button up shirt tucked in neatly at the waist. Both are impeccably pressed, the collar of his shirt possibly even starched. His shoes, black Oxfords decorated in impressive brogue, are older but meticulously maintained, their shine a testament to their ritualistic care.

“You remind me of my son.”

There’s a hard catch in his voice, the kind of catch that makes you pay attention.

“I’m sorry…?” I hear my voice, those two words conveying both curiosity and question.

“You remind me of my son. I missed him.”

I’m not ready for this.

This is supposed to be a quiet morning on my day off, a chance for me to disconnect from the heaviness of the world, a chance to drink my double sweet extra large mocha, alone with only my meandering thoughts for company. I deal with enough pain at work, I don’t want to deal with more pain at the coffee shop.

“I’m sorry…” this time my voice conveys condolences. I hear the catch in my own voice this time.

“It happens. That’s life. That’s why you have to make the important people a priority.” He pauses to take sip of his coffee after blowing exactly twice over the fold-back opening of the takeaway coffee cup. “Time doesn’t wait for you. It didn’t wait for me. It didn’t wait for him. When you have an appointment with Big Guy upstairs…”

His lowered voice trails off as he exhales slowly, his breath almost a mechanism of control, of strength. Metered. Measured. He looks off into the distance, a small shake of his head, his eyes staring unfocused out the large windows into the bustling street beyond.

He turns back towards me. Our eyes meet across the table. I can see the sheen, I can see myself reflected. He blinks hard twice, as if willing an unseen ghost away. As if willing the threatening cascade to stay safely dammed.

“I don’t know what to say…” I’m at a loss for words. Something that’s never been my problem. Something that’s never been an issue for me. And here, and now, in this moment, words have failed me.

Isn’t that always the case in these situations? What does one say? What can one say? Would my words give any comfort? Would they offer solace, these words of mine, these words of a stranger?

I feel that familiar stinging in my own eyes now. My own eye lids blinking harder. My eyes trying to convey to him what my words have failed to share.

“You don’t need to say anything, son.” He says it softly, his hand reaching out to pat the top of mine. He suffered the loss, yet here he is comforting me. “Just heed my words, don’t take time for granted because one day, if you’re not paying attention, you’ll miss out. You’ll be too late.”

At this point, I can’t contain it any longer. I feel that sting convert to a deep burn. The solitary tear drop crests the edge of my eyelid and begins its lonely travels down my cheek.

I feel his hand reach up to wipe my tear away, this coffee shop stranger comforting me when it should be the other way around.

It was his loss and here he is giving me sage advice, advice of lived experience.

“Hey Dad!”

For the second time in my brief sojourn at the coffee shop, my head snaps up.

I see a man coming down the stairs from the businesses above the coffee shop, walking towards our table. He could be my fair skinned doppelgänger, my ghost, his voluminous hair coiled in a bun at the top of his head, just like mine. His beard, more kempt, but nonetheless akin to my own.

“Ah, son. I was just telling this young man he reminds me of you! Sorry I was late. I know you had an appointment with your barber, Big Guy, upstairs, and you couldn’t wait for me. Next time I promise I’ll be on time for our coffee. I’ll remember to properly wind my watch.”

Photo by Johnny Cohen on Unsplash

I saw him standing there.

A striking figure, silhouetted against his car.

Instantly, I knew that used to be me.

“Namaste” I whispered the greeting silently in my mind, acknowledging our oneness in that moment.

There was a bustle all about him. But he didn’t notice, nor would he have cared.

There were people standing around, in proximity, but far enough away that he paid them no mind.

He was in flow state. All his senses heightened.

The concentration fierce on his face, etched by the taut tension lines pulling his arched brows together in the middle of his otherwise smooth forehead. His eyes narrowed in focus. Seemingly glazed over to the outside world while simultaneously fixed on his task. His pupils so dark they blazed with dizzying brightness. The pulsing of his jaw, as he clenched and unclenched, a visible metronome of his internal ready state.

Fight or flight. I recognized it, instantly.

The sinewy muscles of his forearms visible under his dark skin, rippling like the repeated sine waves of a raging ocean building force before a rising storm, itching to spring into action, itching to go on command.

I watched him from a distance. Riveted. Remembering a time in the past when that was me.

When I would take that stance against the unseen enemy. Fingers coiled into a loose fist. Ripe with power. With potential.

Would he strike first, or wait for that moment, that inevitable moment, where he would react in response?

What was his plan? Has he thought it out? Had he been there before, in that moment, that precipice of decision/indecision, between action/inaction, that moment before the point of no return?

In my mind, I looked back at all those times in my youth when I had found myself in those situations.

The times when I’d erred. Done wrong. Chose to act at the wrong moment. The violence bubbling up inside me. The rage and shame. The harsh self recriminations. Too soon. Too late.

I watched him, my forgotten youth my companion in that moment.

Reminded of those times when life was so much more complicated, untinged by wisdom from having lived an uneven life. An odd life.

I watched. Waiting. Wondering. How would this young stranger fare in the face of such an age old challenge?

Click.

That was the first one.

Click.

The second.

Click.

The third.

He’d failed.

I could see the crushing defeat in his face as his hand went limp. Releasing the fury from his fist. His forearm going slack, along with his jaw, his forehead smoothing out. Tension ebbing.

He’d lost this round. This battle was not his. And he knew it.

Resignation became his overcoat, enveloping him, consoling him.

At that moment, our eyes met. I dipped my head in a silent nod of acknowledgement.

“Maybe next time…” that slight motion conveyed the words just as silently as my Namaste.

He returned the gasoline pump to the holster, shaking his head as he read the receipt in his hand.

Disappointment would be his companion on his drive home.

He hadn’t hit the elusive double zero.

Photo by Oliver Ragfelt on Unsplash

The phone rings, the sharp tone snapping me from my pleasant sleep-induced reverie and bringing me back to the present.

It’s 5:42 am on a Sunday.

Shit. I forgot to turn my ringer off like I normally do.

I try to file away my now interrupted thought for future contemplation while attempting to answer the call at the same time.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me. Did I wake you?”

That familiar pang of recognition mixed with confusion courses through me.

That voice. The timbre. The cadence.

Weird.

It’s the first word that pops into my head as I try to place the voice, scrambling through my mental Rolodex, sifting through the voice files, the ones I should recognize.

It’s so familiar. But I can’t place it.

It’s older than I remember. More distinguished. Experienced.

There’s a edge I can’t place, a weariness.

But I should know this voice. I know I should. I’m sure of it.

“Heeeeey…ugh…no…” I manage to blurt out, stretching the word as long as I can and attaching the obvious lie at the end, the previous thought I was trying to hold now vanished into the ether, almost certainly never to be held again. I know I’m trying to buy myself time, to extend that momentary pause to let my brain connect the dots that appear just out of my reach, my sleep state slolwy receding.

And as often happens in these situations, the other party realizes that although their voice is oddly familiar, I’m at a loss – I can’t place them. The moment where they take pity on me, culling my shame.

“I know you can recognize my voice, but you can’t place me. I’ll explain that in a moment but what I’m about to tell you will sound weird. You’ll have to suspend disbelief and give yourself a chance to believe what I’m about to tell you.”

“Uh, ok…” That’s the best I could stammer as I realize he said weird, too. There was no way, with a preamble like that, that I was going to suspend anything. As a generally skeptical person, when your preface a statement with me having to suspend disbelief, it’s probably going to make me do the opposite.

That’s like when someone tells you to trust them. All of a sudden, that’s the last thing I want to do.

But, since I’ve been sheltered away in a pandemic for a better part of almost 2 years, I figure, why not? Let’s play the game and see what this familiar stranger has to say, and what level of suspension will I have to apply to my disbelief.

“I’m you. From the future. 10 years in the future. I’m your future self. That’s why you recognize my voice. It’s your own voice.”

Holy fuck.

With those words the dots finally connected and it hit me like a tsunami. A current pulsed through my spine. My mind shook. That was my voice. It made sense now. It was my voice. But older. It was my voice. Close but different.

I was speaking to myself.

I shook my head, clearing it of imaginary cobwebs, shaking sense into it. Shaking the disbelief out. I had to be dreaming. This was a day dream.

I pinched the back of my hand, right on the space between my thumb and index finger, something I’d read about on the Google when I was obsessed with trying to lucid dream.

It didn’t work. Or it did. It was clear I wasn’t dreaming. This was real and I was talking to future me.

Holy fuck.

In the fraction of a time that it took me to turn that over in my mind, the voice – my voice – spoke again.

“I know it’s a lot to take, but this is important. You’re at a crossroads and this is your chance to make some choices. Better choices. The types of choices that will impact your future. My life. Do you have a few minutes to chat?”

Well, with an intro and lead like that, how could I decline the conversation?

“Uh, yeah…give me a second to clear some things off my calendar”.

Let’s be real, there was nothing to clear on my Covid Calendar, I just needed a few minutes to compose myself, to prepare for what inevitably was going to be a difficult and challenging conversation.

I loudly tapped a few keys on the computer that was perched precariously on my lap, shutting down the jumping baby goats in sweaters YouTube video rabbit hole I’d spent the better part of the last 40 minutes down. I hoped that clickitty-clackitty sound was picked up by my phone and transmitted to future me on the other end.

“Ok, I’m all ears.”

There was a deep pause on the other end. I thought I heard an even deeper sigh.

“Well, I can’t tell you how to live your life going forward. That’s not part of the deal. All I’m allowed to do is tell you about your biggest regrets over the next decade. The rest, and what you do with that information, is completely up to you. And I don’t have much time to tell you, maybe 5 minutes, maybe less. I’m running out of time.”

My mind was now spinning even more than before. I had so many questions. There was so much to ask, but I didn’t know where to start. And 5 minutes was definitely not enough time to get everything answered.

Before I had a chance to even ask anything, I heard my future self take a breath. The kind of breath taken before unloading a lot of uncomfortable personal stuff.

“We’ve had a lot of regrets. Some small. Some big. Some really, really big. There’s a lot of things we did that we shouldn’t have, and probably just as many things we didn’t do, that we should have done. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to go through all of them. There’s only so much time before they find me, before they come for me, so I’ll try to cover the most important ones.”

Thoughts and words and things were flying through my mind but I didn’t want to say anything, I didn’t to interrupt future me from unloading this goldmine of information. Although there was a brief moment where I almost asked about a hot stock tip, I managed to bite my tongue as I recognized not everyone has an opportunity to learn fro their future self what their biggest regrets 10 years into the future are.

This was not only an opportunity to learn from the future, but an opportunity to reshape the future. My future.

“Let’s start with something simple.” I heard my own voice, that familiar yet distinct voice, reflected back at me from my phone as a pressed the speaker closer to my ear. “Let’s start with some simple regrets before we get into the big ones. That being said, just because these next few regrets appear small, doesn’t mean they didn’t have far reaching ripple effects – the so-called butterfly effect – some of these act like that.”

“You have my attention…” and I did have my attention. I was rapt with attention. Ready to absorb this info, integrate it, and do the needful with it.

“The first regret is about opportunities.”

“Do you mean, missed opportunities?” the words rushed out before I could stop them. So much for composure and restraint.

“Yes. But it’s more than that. It’s not just opportunities not taken, the missed opportunities, it’s also the opportunities squandered. The ones you took, but didn’t follow through on, didn’t see to the end.”

Future me paused to let present me consider what had been said. Damn, I got good at dramatic pauses in the future. But it also made me realize that was an unfair statement.

“I get that, to a certain degree, but how am I supposed to know which opportunities to follow through on, and which ones should be stopped early because they’ll lead to a dead end. For you, that’s easy, you have the power of hindsight. 20/20. You can look back and use the information you have to evaluate differently than what I’m able to do looking forward.”

“Yes, that’s true” future me started his measured reply “but deep down in your own mind, you know where you pulled the rip cord too soon; because you were tired, because you were lazy, because you didn’t care, because you chased the next shiny thing. You got tired of doing the boring work, the detail work, the grunt work. The stuff that connects the dots between A and Z. You’ve always been into the big picture, the lofty ideas, the big plans. The dreams. The visions. And once you start on them, doing the work to keep them going gets tedious, it’s not as exciting, right? And so you stop and find a new big idea to jump on. Leaving a trail of unfinished opportunities.”

I wasn’t wrong. It was tough to hear me tell me this stuff. I’d been told this stuff by others before, but those were easy to throw off and ignore. They didn’t know me, what I did, how I thought. But here, I knew me. And it was me calling myself out. That was hard and I knew this was just the beginning. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the call?

“I know this is hard to hear” Wow. It was like I was reading my own mind “but you need to hear it. What you do with it is up to you, as I said.”

“Ok, I’m listening.”

“You’re not wrong that saying yes to something is saying no to something else. There is only so much time and energy, only so many resources you have available. They’re finite and limited. If they’re directed in the wrong way, even if done enthusiastically, you won’t reach your destination, the journey will be wasted in some ways. Picture yourself on a boat on a river. Now picture yourself rowing as hard as you can. Furiously stroking those oars, slicing the water in perfect symmetry and propelling yourself across the glass-like surface. Now imagine your boat is pointed in the wrong direction. You won’t ever reach your destination. You’ve focused so hard on rowing that you didn’t make sure the boat was pointed the right way. Wasted energy. Wasted time. Wasted effort. Until you stop to course correct.”

“Am I doing that in my life right now?” I needed to know. Man, did I need to know. I wanted my boat pointed in the right direction, the sooner the better.

“As I told you before, I can’t give you specifics other than highlighting the regrets themselves. This was about opportunities. Both taken and squandered. The boat was the opportunity you took. Not looking at the compass was where you squandered it. Keep your eye on the direction before putting all your effort in. Keep your focus on the shores you wish to land upon.”

Ugh. Future me was talking in rhymes with jumps in logic that weren’t making sense to me. Is this how I am? Hmm…looking back at this, yeah, seems on brand. I couldn’t fault future me for being like me, I suppose.

“Time is running out. I can hear them. They’re close by. I must continue.”

I could hear the tension in my oddly familiar voice as the stress of muttering those sentences altered the pitch slightly. There was as rustling sound and the voice came back, lower, muffled, speaking in hushed whispers.

“We’ve talked about opportunities, now let’s talk about freedom. You used to be free. You didn’t always realize it back then. But you had untold freedoms. You were free to make choices. Now, I don’t have that luxury because of choices you made. You didn’t appreciate it like you should have. It’s gone now. Lost forever.”

“What kind of freedoms did I take for granted?” I needed to know so I could preserve these untold freedoms into my future.

“There’s not time to go into details. I’m hiding from them but I know they’ll find me. They always do. It won’t be long now. I can hear them, they’re getting closer. You must listen!” The words rushed out, coated in the desperation of one facing imminent danger.

“Go on…” my own voice mimicked the quiet tones, as we do. I could feel the solitary bead of cold sweat, birthed from nothing, start meandering down between my shoulder blades, the hairs on my arm standing upright, the thudding in my chest in synchronicity with future me, in solidarity, my breath catching. I could hear my future panic. Feeling it wrap itself around my present self in its cold embrace.

This was no joke. The danger was real. I had to listen. This was my chance to avoid what was coming for future me.

“They’ve almost found me. THEY’RE SO CLOSE. Listen carefully. This is the big one. The one with the biggest impact on your future life. It impacts every aspect in so many ways. I have to tell you before it’s too late…before you make this mistake…”

A loud scream, almost a squeal erupted in my ears. It sounded like murder. Like death. Like the end.

A door opening. The whoosh of air as hinges creaked against an incredible, terrifying force. The force of darkness.

Future me had been caught. They had found him. I knew instantly that this was the end.

“Daddy! We found you! Were you hiding from us again?”

A thunderous clatter. It was the unmistakable sound of a phone hitting the floor. Muffled voices. More screams and squeals.

Before the line abruptly went dead, I heard the faint echoes of his last entreaty.

“Bob, don’t make the same mistakes. Remember the biggest regrets…”

Then silence. Deafening. All encompassing. Final.

Realization struck me like a punch to the stomach. The air rushing out of me as my shoulders slumped, my body going limp. Drained. This was huge.

Bob? My name’s not Bob.

This was a wrong number.

I put down my phone, and resumed gently stroking my little babbies, my two dozing sphynx cats, and fell back asleep on this lazy Sunday morning.

Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash

About 7 years ago, I learned why it pays to have a regular ol’ car worth much less than six figures…

Especially when fancy ass Maserati blatantly tries to cheat on right of way.

Epiphany in action:

The Maserati driver, attempting to project his vehicular dominance, stares down our protagonist, goading him as he attempts to pull his dastardly maneuver.

That was his first mistake.

In return he was offered only a cold, steely glare from our unnamed protagonist, and not an inch of asphalt.

In that brief ocular conversation, it was foretold, and understood, that the outcome would be much worse for him if this low speed game of brinkmanship were to be consummated in all its crunching glory.

And so, dear reader, he braked his ass up.

And peace and harmony were again fully restored to the lands.

Photo by Felix Janßen on Unsplash

With a singular drop it has the power to rip apart incredible bonds as well as build others up. A duality. Of purpose. Of being. Of function.

It has more power than we often give it credit. 

It can bring molecules together. Or push them apart.  

At rest, it sits there, within the protective confines of its container, shimmering, waiting for the next use. It’s next shot. It’s next opportunity to do its work.

To work its magic. 

It came to rest on that counter in a rather innocuous manner…but now I realize it has become a part of my life, a respite; it harbours a few moments of relaxation in my daily ritual. 

Picked up at the local store, not so long ago, it was chosen from among the dozens like it placed nearby. There were rows and rows. Bottles of different shapes and sizes. It came in a rainbow of colours. Flavours to suits every nasal palate.

It could have been any of them. 

Or could it? Was this one the chosen one? The one that had the right combination of the 4 C’s: colour, clarity, cost, and copy? 

I can’t remember anymore. 

It wasn’t important back then. It’s not important now. 

It’s fluid nature is seen when the elegant bottle is picked up, it’s heft comforting in the hand. Solid. Girthy. As the container is tilted, the liquid glides up and down the sides, settling back down followed by it’s trailing legs dancing behind. Gliding back to repose.

The powerful concoction is highly concentrated, distilled for potency. Concentrated. Some choose to use it uncut. I use it diluted, appreciating its potential, while softening the effect.

Not on the grease but on my hands. 

It is high quality dish soap made by a major player in the industry.

Sunlight.

Golden yellow for both the sunlight it contains and the lemon in its scent. It’s viscosity correlated directly with its quality. 

It’s the surfactant used to clean our dishes – the cups, plates, bowls, and pots. The cutlery. The wine glasses and cocktail tumblers. All the various vessels that bring us together for a meal or a libation, that bring us together as friends and family.

That have helped in building our bonds and our memories and experiences. 

With every use, it can either start a story. Or end one. 

Punctuation in a bottle.

Photo by Bobby Donald on Unsplash; punctuation by me.