Falling Late.

The nip of morning’s breath tightens skin, awakening a bumpy path of raised hairs and pecked freckles. Wrestling with the covers for just ten minutes more, radio-intercepted thoughts pull me in and out of sleep. It’s too early, I mutter to the morning news.

Slamming the alarm clock, it used to taking this type of brutal beating, I groan under covers pulled up past sleep crusted eyes. Flickers of work, of what to wear, of when to leave, of who to talk to, of prior engagements, of getting home, of crawling back to bed, of dreaming tussle for priority; sleep dominating work, just for a few minutes more, when, like an awkward left hook, comfort loses out to responsibility, a quick blow with a solid follow through.

Feet padding along carpet, cringing at cold linoleum, the towel crumpled on the floor where it fell yesterday, the water not warm enough no matter how hot.

The coffee pot dripping painfully slow, I am watching thick black sauce steam into the pot; standing in the kitchen in socks and pants and bra, sweater still tumbling around the dryer – successfully forgoing plugging in the iron to save just three minutes and twenty seven seconds – I am dazed.

Swished mascara, poorly applied foundation, a brush, a comb, a rinse and repeat, the mechanism of morning is engrained and automatic.

The ten minute dash to the door when, looking at the clock, I remember the early morning meeting with the critical client who’s expectations far exceed my skill base. Not finding the matching impractical but impressive stiletto boot in the front hall closet, tripping over the cat, finding a hole in the little toe of my sock (an annoyance destined to remind me of my slow start for the rest of the day), pulling arms through red jacket sleeves, storming out into the hallway, applying jagged lipstick in the shiny but warped metal door reflection of the elevator, I am late.

Bursting out into the cold I ward off fall, desperate to cling to aestival temperatures; Mother Nature’s breath is a fresh tickle. This is the slow tease before the deep freeze, sweater threads scratching summer soft skin – I am not ready for falling leaves and bare trees, I am not ready for Monday.

xoxo,

M.L. H’art

Dreaming of the Wolf.

My woolen toque is pulled tight over red ears; protected by padded mittens, my raw hands shiver. There is no traffic on the road. The only light leading the way is that of the stars and the moon.

You call me just then on my cell phone. The reception crackles in my ear and though I can’t hear you well, I know you are coming.

Suddenly, there you are: waiting, leaning against your car. Your car is weathered and rusted. You seem unfazed, standing there solidly, calmly, not shivering, not shaking, not bothered by the chill.

We get in your car and drive into night – you do not say where we are going nor do I ask.

We can see our breath, a thick fog on the windshield, even though I keep fidgeting with the dials, begging for heat.

We drive in silence, when I ask: “Who is the wolf?”

It takes you a very long time to answer.

Everyone is the wolf, you tell me. You tell me people are changing, right before your very eyes. You cannot trust anyone anymore because the wolf is in each of them, you tell me; the wolf in them makes you uneasy.

The wolf, you say, it chases Sol across the sky from early morning till dusk and chases Mani through the dark into the light. The wolf and his brother, you say, eclipse the sun by swallowing the globe temporarily. The wolf, you say, is revered as a hunter and provider, it is admired for its brave path-finding loyalty and demonized for its greed and destructiveness. The wolf, you say, protects its loved ones but betrays their secrets.

“I am the wolf,” you say.

“You are the wolf,” I say.

Falling prey to the concupiscent image of the wolf, I tell you, is a narrow way to experience the world; there is good and bad in everyone; the strength and the weakness of the wolf is but a natural balance found in each of us, I say. But you become impassioned, angry.

That’s what the wolf wants you to think, you say.

You will be devoured in the dark of night by the hungry, hungry wolf, you say.

I interrupt, tell you this is all so dramatic, there is no wolf, it is just your interpretation of tumultuous change, your choice to place an unnecessarily negative filter over the world and those around you.

You stop the car, reach across me, open the passenger side door and say:

“You’ve been warned. Get out.”

You drive away, your headlights racing off into the distance. I am standing on the side of an empty highway when I awake.

xoxo

M.L. H’art

The Call.

The phone, it rang last night late.

I answered: Hullo.

She said: I had this dream about you.

Into the receiver, I whispered: I know.

We were in a closed, pale room, she told me.

Sitting across a cold, metal table from one another, I replied.

You were sick.

You were sick, too.

How are you? She asks.

Fine. Not too sick. Getting better. And you?

Good. I thought I might be sick. The doctor, he says it’s nothing.

Oh, I say.

We sit in deep silence.

You said you’d not be here for long in the dream, she says to me.

No, I don’t think I will, I tell her.

No, me neither, she says.

The sickness, it’s serious. I pause.

Yes. Well, no. Not yet.

She lies.

We should see one another, she says. That’s what the dream means, she continues.

Perhaps, I say. I worry for you.

I worry for you, too.

We’re okay? I ask.

Yes, I think we must be.

I love you, I say.

I love you too, she says.

Pay close attention, okay?

I will, she sighs.

Okay then.

Okay.

Well.

Goodnight.

Goodbye.

Not goodbye.

No, just goodnight.

Okay.

Click.

Click.

xoxo,

M.L. H’art