Driving down the escarpment on Grimsby’s Mountain road last night, I saw shadowy figures just ahead in the distance, in the road in front of me. They turned out to be a row of skateboarders, wearing wind/motorcycle gear, lined up to skate all the way down the hill’s winding road.
It was just about to become the end of dusk. The lights of the town below, along the lake shore, and across the lake, from Toronto, glittered as the last shade of inkstained blue left the sky during their descent.
At first they annoyed me. Just for a split second. But then I slowed the car and followed carefully, and watched the one in front of me: he appeared to be floating down the hill, poised in the middle of the lane in the roadway, his arms out to the side, like birds hold out their wings. Like the raptors who live around this mountain all year now, circling their way up and down the thermals that spiral over the trees. He never took his feet off the board, never veered from dead centre in the lane. The road was free of ice, free of potholes, smooth and black and steep. When he got to the end of Mountain road, he passed a group of other skaters, all dressed as he was, all cheering him on. He maneuvered his way around a car turning right, then slipped back into the middle of the road again, finally stopping his descent on Highway 8, turning to face me with a look of pure exhilaration on his face, waving to thank me for keeping my distance, giving him his space; running back up to his friends. Watching him, I imagined he felt like he was soaring, just like the eagles and hawks. He was looking at the same sparkling light, the same growing darkness, but he was also feeling the wind against his body, the effect of every one of his movements on his speed, and his control. You could tell he was ecstatic. In his eyes you could see such joy.
Tilda Swinton
A long, cool woman in a black dress.
(A strangely designed black dress, and an unfortunate, lopsided pose. And yet, still magnificent)
My husband has a woman friend in the city. A confidant. He tells me she confides in him, she’s a divorced woman with a child and a lover who lives in another city, who has a child and family of his own. She gives my husband many little gifts: appointments for manicures and facials at the men’s spa, outings to interesting restaurants together, an hour or so with a Shiatsu masseuse who tries to iron out the snags, physically (but also brings up all the old emotional stuff). He had a massage last Saturday, and told me about the experience the next day.
He said the masseuse said, “How’s your grief?” as he started his consultation, not even giving him a chance to settle in yet.
All his aches and pains reveal him: sadness held deep, halting the lungs; sadness never expressed, made succinct, in the skin; frustration and denial, as heavy to bear as an anvil, hard against a back it makes weak.
(We can’t help but reveal ourselves clearly. No matter what effort we think we make to the contrary).
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