APR 8

Our Old Pal Ovaltine

 

Our old pal Ovaltine tells us

time’s a-wasting. Get moving on  

those life lessons we’re stuck on 

or ignoring. He knows, God bless 

him, he’s checking his watch as the 

minutes count down on the hunt for

the good life: joy, prosperity,

love, a bungee jump, a bucket 

list, things you’d do once if you can

do them twice, the hundred things you

should do before you die, pleasure, 

risk, ooh la la, sliding into 

the grave with chocolate in one 

hand and a martini in the 

other, the clichéd shite people 

write about, and, unlike us, are

doing, actively, mindfully. 

We’re afraid of complacency, 

we tell our old pal Ovaltine,

who’s free-falling into naptime 

or stupor, hard to tell which. 

You should have pursued adventure

whether you wanted it or not, 

he yawns, slipping contentedly

into past tense. We squint, we still

recognise him. But we panic. 

APR 7

Ribbon Candy

The sky darkens, is not yet dark.

Inside a candy box marked X 

lie tangles of multicoloured 

lights that we put up with a roll 

of hockey tape on the living

room window, which is also the 

dining room window, and also

the kitchen window. We drape the

strand round the perimeter, then

make a big X in the centre. 

We’d prefer a scheme: red, green, and

white, maybe, and we don’t really 

want the X in the middle. When 

we plug them in, there’s the shock of

them lit against the now-dark; we

sense that all’s right with the world and

run outside to look up at our

window, see proof we’ve taken care

of everything that could be wrong. 

APR 6

  

Leftovers 

 

The yard is full of bogles, says

the pig dog. Sometimes this means he’s

torn apart enemies that looked 

like tennis balls. This time, it’s a

coyote helping itself to

cats, rabbits, any small beast in

its path. The pig dog’s instinct is 

to befriend, and that’s no good. Not 

now. He’s no match for a wily 

coyote. ‘Wile E. Coyote - 

see what we did there?’ we ask, and

snap the leash onto his collar. 

 

The pig dog hears nature take its

brutish course outside. He used to

have many bunny friends, but they

are in short supply lately. Last

spring, we’d see a dozen a night.

We wouldn’t be surprised if we 

saw the lawn littered with bones and 

shreds. Even unlucky squirrels, squashed 

while running across the road, have 

been scraped up and eaten. Not a 

scrap left. The enemy, doubled, 

trebled, is now unstoppable. 

APR 5

 Pain Perdu

What you want is a place to stash

stuff you’d rather forget, almost.

Stuff you won’t see again unless

you choose. A place for secrets — say, 

explicit journals, nasty pics,

or my favourite: rewritten 

history. We know you blab your 

real history to pretty much

anyone if they’re too drunk to

remember. You say your secrets

are torn to bits, thrown in city

waste bins. Admit the truth. It's best

to start small: one room, one secret.

The name for this kind of place is

oubliette - a big deal in Goth

novels, a symbol of evil

or – we know you’ll like this - power. 

You find one under medieval 

castles. Control freaks use them to

persecute the vulnerable.

You’re not like that. Forget booby

traps, elaborate chambers. You

want only forgetfulness, the

relief of never having an

accusing finger wag in your 

face, the option of lock and of

wondering where you put the key. 

APRIL 4

Crumbs of Unfestive Cake 

The posy grew crispier and

more fragile over time in its

attic perch, slyly moving from

 

box to box, stack to stack. If we

should happen upon it, we’d be 

surprised anew by its stealth and 

meanness. Cheap mishmash even at

the beginning, it failed to spark 

joy in its dotage. Over the

years, we stuffed it into smaller

and smaller boxes and one day

we found it cringing along with 

crumbs of unfestive cake, also 

junked, in a plastic grocery 

bag. It sapped our energy to 

hold it in our hands. Like anti-

matter, we said, recoiling. The 

flowers had never agreed to 

what they had become and we felt 

ill for them. We had come so far 

over the years and they had not.

How could we? How could they? Either

we weep or they will, half-arsed weeds.

 

APRIL 3

 Oysters Rockefeller 

 

Every year is the same. Send two 

balloons to the heavens, a pouch

of her ashes attached, and watch

until she disappears. ‘Where do 

you suppose she goes,’ asks the lad. 

 

He thinks the jet stream will carry

her east. She’ll float to Prince Edward 

Island or Newfoundland. On a 

windy night she’ll make the trip in

four hours. We like this idea. 

 

The balloons rise quickly and are

gone. Straight to the Maritimes, we 

say. The balloons will settle – not

burst - on a coastline dotted with

colourful houses and shanties.

 

The lad is thinking of beaches 

where the tiny packet might drop,

releasing her ashes into 

the sand. Starfish will catch sight of

bits of glitter in the ashes. 

 

And giant wily lobsters, we 

tell him. The kind who are smart enough 

to escape trawlers and live to 

a startlingly old age. They will 

be there to greet her. And oysters? 

 

The first time she took us to a 

fancy restaurant, she ordered 

Oysters Rockefeller. You won’t

forget this. she said. It’ll be 

our tradition. You, me, oysters.

 

‘Oysters Rockefeller are my

favourite thing in the world, too,’

says the lad, squinting, squinting. ‘Our

tradition, too.’ There is no trace 

of the balloons. They are long gone.

 

 

 

APRIL 2

Strip Loin with Fingerling Potatoes

 

I want to be angry enough.

I want thunder and hurricanes,

shrieks, quakes, mayhem. I want to be 

worse than Medusa, worse

than anything you can think of. 

A monster, you'll say, cowering. 

 

My best friend and I are in this 

together. He has strong jaws and 

teeth and chooses when to use them.

I tell him about hunger, rage,

the things he's suspected, and will

teach him when the time is right.