Past lives

For Thom Ahart

You were grim-laughing about past lives and I had to agree. Maybe you were a surgeon who killed off his patients and looked forward to breaking news to waiting families. Or maybe you were the president of a small nation who used international aid to buy your wife shoes instead of building schools and hospitals––so many she’d never have to wear the same pair twice. Or maybe you were a drug manufacturer who jacked up prices even though people would die. Whatever, it had to be bad.
I don’t like the test results––you’re right, you have to join the research study, stage three isn’t good. Especially not with managing your mom and the dementia. It’s hard when they’re angry and start wandering. The nursing home will be okay: she’ll get settled, have her own room. Just hang in there with the chemo, and don’t miss any appointments. What else can you do?
I keep thinking of the first day I met you. On the public ferry, heading up to Alaska. We weren’t allowed to tip for some stupid reason so you kept dropping fifty-dollar notes behind the bar, apologising and laughing, insisting they weren’t yours until the bartender would finally pocket them. You’re a good person—that’s what I mean. Those past lives had to be bad, but you don’t deserve this. You’ll get through.

Upgrade

For Irene Otis

It cost $250, and the technical officer came to the house twice. First time, the internet wasn’t fast enough so we had to dig up the yard and lay cable, then he’s back and setting up the computers––face-to-face––like they’re talking. New application, he says. Photos. All this so I can access 2004 ’til now. Seems there’s a systems failure but then, there you are, on-screen: standing in the doorway of that hotel in Rome, mirror reflecting your back, light streaming in behind you. You’re wearing a coat, scarf, because it's winter. Then, slideshow: other side of the world and I’m staring out of a train window, sombre expression. Now your sister’s on the soccer field. Of course those are the innocuous ones. 28,000 photos and there’s going to be some doozies. But therapy and AA must be helping because I’m not rushing to delete them. Your stepdad flashes onscreen and I think, Wow, I was married to that man. Then your brother … Huh, he used to talk to me. Birthdays and Christmas, and there we were, crowded on the too-small couch, counting down for the camera and laughing until we were stomach-sore. We were all so fit. Beautiful, even. I don’t think any of us knew how beautiful we were.

Intimacy

It was light, but early-light. Morning quiet and shadows, air brisk. Helmet a little too tight. I was coming to the roundabout near the Asian grocer’s, you know the one––that slow descent down Keira St, until it’s not-so-slow and you have to brake. No traffic to my right. I was over the line, making that gentle arc around median when he arrived: white pick-up, decelerating but not stopping. I could feel his get-to-work hurry, and knew there’d be impact. I dared it, maybe––stupid. Being in the right’s no protection, but part of me wanted to see what would happen, and I could feel it coming, that double slam: truck-me, me-bitumen. Everything silent-still––spirit knocked loose for a moment––until I stood, surprised that was still possible, surprised I could walk to the sidewalk and tell the driver I was fine—no, no need to file a report. Surprised it was possible to get back on my bicycle. Aware––with permanence, like a scar––of everyone going to work, running errands, and that vulnerable proximity of strangers.

New order: time is not chronological

For Evan Winet

Late summer, 2025, and I’m standing in front of the Opera House, steps and sails behind me. A band on stage, and maybe six or seven people between me and the keyboard player. Across oceans and skyways, Trump and Elon are gun-toting horseback, but the familiar bass helps quiet the court-noise and tariffs. I am beneath an Antipodean sky. I am listening to a song I’ve been listening to for thirty years.
I’ve never been to England, but it's also 1979, and I’m with you, in Manchester. We scored fake IDs from our high school calculus teacher and we’re raging against Maggie Thatcher, who can’t wait to dismantle the UK. Across the ocean, this American movie-star Ronald Reagan is running against Jimmy Carter. Our anger is nihilistic but we’re saved by this strange music, listening to more songs, songs that don’t yet exist, won’t be written until after the suicide of this brooding frontman.
It's like we’re drunk with overwhelm, and we already know too much: we can feel all of the grief and joy and disappointment that waits. Your wife will die, I will move countries, our jobs will crumble, our kids will amaze us, and through it all, this steady beat tethering us to this/so many world(s).