I haven't always been a good daughter. In my angsty teenage years, I stumbled around under the sway of cheap whisky, a formidable tangle of overactive hormones and over-plucked eyebrows. Responsibility and autonomy came in floods in areas my parents knew I was ready for. I was encouraged to get a part-time job, to choose school subjects I was truly passionate about, to take driving lessons. It trickled down slowly elsewhere. I’m the oldest sibling, meaning I was the first of their children to ask permission to go to a house party where “my friend’s mum and dad will be upstairs and nobody’ll be drinking, I promise!”
The ritual of loss is a strange routine, danced on tiptoes and spoken in whispers. It’s full of euphemisms and clichés and awkward gestures. It smells like lilies and hot tea and your duvet pulled close to your face. It tastes like tears. It tastes like fire at the back of your throat.
I’m sitting on a chair in my apartment. One leg crossed over the other, one bare foot resting on the cool, wooden floor. I sip a beer that’s no longer cold, dragging out the last of it and the last of the night with it. The kitchen table is a museum of nights well spent: … Continue reading A Conversation About Conversations
The intermittent roll and click of suitcase wheels across too-slick floor tiles. The occasional drone of “last call for passengers travelling to...” over crackly tannoys. The constant, congested coughs of inefficient air conditioning units. Welcome to the airport: where beer costs a fortune, basic human comforts are a luxury, and the very purpose of this … Continue reading Airports
I didn’t enjoy my late teens (I know, I know: who did?). Several unfortunate events happened, one after the other in quick and queasy succession, as they often do in life when we’re least expecting it. I — a kind of lost, kind of geeky, kind of insecure young woman with a block fringe that … Continue reading Me, Myself, and Mental Health
My uncle Malcolm is eighty-one years old. He lives in a nice house in a nice suburb of Toronto with a nice backyard and a nice dog and a nice wife. He’s from where I’m from, and — like me — he landed in Toronto in his early twenties. We have a lot of things … Continue reading My Uncle Malcolm
A woman’s history is an ever-growing tree of countless leaves and branches. Its interlacing roots snake and stretch through the tender soil of firsts: first loves, first hopes, first failures, first heartbreaks. We exchange accounts of these firsts and the seconds and thirds that follow with the women around us — mothers, sisters, friends, aunts, … Continue reading A Woman’s History
Mum, Dad: Thank you for being my wing-men. Not with the whole "helping me pick up guys at the bar" thing, but with the whole, y'know, "life" thing. Thanks for letting thirteen-year-old me spend your money on octopus trousers and fingerless fishnet gloves from Tammy while most of the other girls were spending their parents' … Continue reading To my Parents