I don't love my grandmother. Honest truth despite my wanting to - and why do I want to? Because Sister, Mom, they love her, they'd think me unfeeling and monstrous for not. I think of Omi sitting alone waiting for phone calls, slowly surely losing memory and sense of being, a crumb in the corner of a blank massive plate. She is old. That's a dumb thing to think of, and certainly not a reason to not love her - I don't believe it IS even a reason I don't love her. But what is, then? I set reminders on my phone to call her, swipe them away. Change the date to be reminded again to call tomorrow, and indefinitely put it off, push the jar of unwanted salsa further into the back of the fridge until it is masked by newer fresher products. I think Sister would be horrified I don't love Omi. And when I say I don't, it's not that I feel nothing, or that there's no fondness or good memory. It's that there's no true desire to call because a call would be for HER sake - there is no selfless giving, as real love does at times demand. This is how I know. Because I do not care enough to give. I think of a half hour conversation with Omi, Omi who is confused and forgets who I am and herself and that Opi is dead, and that half hour seems an endlessly long corridor of time. I am selfish. I am a bitch in this. I am ugly in this. I am open and raw and I do not love my grandmother, and I feel guilt eating the walls of my stomach, but it is more guilt at what Sister and Mom would think if they knew the full extent of my lack of love than it is guilt over thinking I am wrong for this. I do not think it is bad that I don't love Omi; I think it is sad and circumstantial and a bastard outlook borne of distance and alienation. Ugly heart mine.

It’s dark when the bedroom door clicks open, jolting Eurion awake.

The soft shuffling of slippers helps him identify Louis, no other sound meeting his ears, and he’s just closed his eyes again when-

“Eurion.” It’s a whisper. “You awake?”

“Mmph.”

The single bed two feet away creaks as Louis sits.

“Need to talk.”

Eurion sighs. “Okay. Gimme a sec.”

It takes a minute for him to right himself, pushing himself up to sit against the wall. He rubs sleep from his eyes. Slivers of blue and purple light filter through the blinds, a little extra coming through the broken slat third from the bottom, the one Rome broke when he installed it over the small window. There’s enough light to make out Louis’ figure on the other bed. He sits hunched over. His knees are pulled to his chest.

“What is it?”

No response.

“Lou.”

“Ms. Corvette propositioned me.”

This is something Louis does, always referring to his clients by some misnomer - a fear of reality, he called it once, saying that to recognize identities would be proof he’d accepted his lot in life. Easier to refer to them by a nickname. To give them an avatar. Louis loves video games, and life gets a whole lot easier when he pretends he’s living one.

Eurion runs his tongue along the back of his teeth. “For consort services?”

He can just make out the nod Louis gives, a shadowy movement.

“What… what did you say?”

“I said I’d think about it.” The words are muffled; he’s buried his face in his hands now. “I feel sick. We had just left the high stakes table and were headed for the bar, and she asked me. Said it like it was the most casual thing in the world.” He lifts his head. “I said I’d think about it. What’s wrong with me, E?”

Eurion doesn’t have to think. “You’re desperate. No need to feel shitty for it; we all are. That’s what’s wrong with us all.”

“None of you are considering becoming harlots.”

“I kill people for a living.”

It’s silent.

Ten years ago, this conversation would have been a fever dream, a bizarre concoction of Eurion’s adolescent mind in a much simpler time. But now he sits, staring at the dark silhouette of his roommate, the term murder already fading from his vocabulary, and wonders what he’ll be talking about ten years from today. If he survives another ten.

He’d called it that once. Murder. Used to think that about Nick, for a while, that he was unfeeling and psychopathic and savage. But now?

Professional assassin. Sniper for hire. Private gun. They’re all phrases Eurion goes by, mantles he’s accepted as part of the “trade”. Nick was never numb, he knows now. Nick was simply adaptable.

Grit your teeth and do it, Nick had said, the first time he took Eurion for target practice. That kick will become your safety net.

It’s true. Nothing makes him feel as secure as the cool steel of his Timberwolf resting in his grip. But Eurion has come to terms with his chosen path.

Louis fights himself constantly.

“What does your gut tell you?” Eurion asks.

“I can’t tell. I’m too distracted by the holes in my sneakers.”

“Seriously, Lou.”

A sigh. “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell if I feel worse at the thought of going through with it, or at the thought of how broke I am. I’m running out of options. Did I tell you I had to sell my Versace shirt? The one Lady Toupee bought me?”

Louis used to wear that shirt around the apartment three days a week. Didn’t matter that he wasn’t entertaining. Clothes this nice deserve to be worn, he said. He’d thrown a fit when Nick joked about shrinking it in the wash.

Eurion holds back a sigh, missing those days, the days when they still had a laundry machine, the days when chores had a causal air about them and less of a this is for our survival mentality.

“You told me,” he says.

Distant, muffled through the wall, an ambulance siren whines into being. The sounds rises and falls, wavelike, a wave of drowsiness that sloshes over him. It's more of a lullaby than an alarm these days. A reminder that night is looming.

Louis picks at something on his knee. "I saw a bounty claim report on the casino big screens. For that bigshot CEO you were after."

Adrenaline hits Eurion like a skytrain.

Choking on spit, he shoots forward off the wall, nearly falling off the bed. His ratted blanket pools onto the carpet. "What did it say? Who was it?"

"Richard something." Louis cocks his head. "Aren't you supposed to read up on these guys before-"

"Not the target, Lou - The shot, who was the shot?!"

"Oh, right." Lowering his feet to the floor, Louis sits forward. Soft-glowing purple and blue lines fall across his face, painting him a Greek god in filtered neon, a cool, sharp image that reminds Eurion of an advertisement he's seen for an extravagant cologne line.

Daylight suits Louis better, in Eurion's opinion. Warm light brings his softer features into focus. Makes him look young. Like the boy he'd been, before the world had started carving him into something else.

Humming, Louis taps his finger against his chin. "New blood, this one. Goes by the name 'Triggerfinger'."

"Original."

"That's rich, Nighthowler."

"Shut up." Heat crawls up Eurion's neck. He didn't pick the name, didn't know he'd gotten a reputation for his choice of weapon until it was too late to establish himself as anything else.

Snorting, Louis leans back, disappearing into the shadows again. "Anyway, I overheard a couple private guns talking about it. Apparently this one's a sniper, female - climbing the ranks quickly, too. Not much other info out there."

Eurion tastes the lining of his cheek, poking it out with his tongue. Sleep and dehydration have melded together to turn his mouth to sandpaper.

He fumbles for the half-empty water bottle under his bedframe. "Well, the female part narrows it down. There aren't many women cutting into the gun market these days - which is odd, really. They don't have to get up close and personal if they don't want to. They could make a living as a killer without ever throwing or ducking a punch. There's precision to sniping. Attention to detail. You don't get blood on your hands - literally speaking - if you're good at what you do."

"I expect it's the killing part that turns them off the job," Louis says dryly.

Shaking his head, Eurion rights himself, scooching back on the bed again until his spine meets the wall. "No. There's a lot of femme fatale types out there. They'll slip things into drinks. Lure a man to a dark alley with a little skin, then step back so a gang of brawlers can jump him. Women aren't afraid to take a life."

"Maybe I should be on the watch for that, eh?" A half-hearted laugh sounds from Louis' silhouette.

Eurion closes his eyes. The memory of the scene plays against the dark canvas of his eyelids, stilling him to watch again and again as his shot, target, and pay are taken from him. If this starts happening on the regular, it'll be his reputation at risk next.

"Maybe we all should," he says.

The apartment door groans open when they push in.

Nine hundred square feet of stained linoleum greets them, split into three rooms and a miniscule bathroom. Rome sits at the table, muscled frame casting a large shadow on the floor. He holds a bag of frozen peas to his face. “Hey. Package for you, Newport.”

Nick looks to the counter. “Earlier than expected.”

“You're telling me. Apparently I took too long getting out of the shower to answer the door - delivery guy was a real ass about it.” He runs a broad hand over his buzzcut.

There's the padding of bare feet as Louis shuffles into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, tanned torso on full display. His sweatpants are too big. He mumbles a greeting.

“Looks like you stuck your fingers in a socket,” Eurion comments, gesturing to his hair. Even lookers can't win against bedhead, especially with caramel waves like that.

There's no reply.

“Where's Salem?” Eurion turns to Rome, grimacing at the sight of the black eye he's nursing.

“Out. Said she needs new clothes, the old ones are too loose.”

Nick rummages through the package. “Marriage did a number on her.”

Sputtering, Rome drops the bag of peas. “Excuse me, we're very happy together. We're just -”

“Broke,” Eurion nods. He pushes past Louis, who's standing dazedly in the open door of the fridge, and grabs a beer. “Low on food. Spending all your money on birth control.”

Rome reddens as Nick snickers.

“They have to,” Louis says. He's still staring into the fridge, baritone voice thick with sleep. “Don't wanna bring kids into this dump.”

Silence falls.

Eurion toasts Louis. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Anyway, she'll be back soon.” Rome lifts the peas to his eye again. “You guys get your pay?”

There's a rattling noise. Nick empties the box onto the counter, catching a few packs of cigarettes before they slide off the edge.

“No.” Eurion runs his tongue over the backs of his teeth. The sight of the target's blood on the wall is still fresh in his mind. “Someone beat us to the target. We can't go to Hosea empty-handed.”

“It was a clean shot,” Nick says.

“Mine would've been cleaner.” The beer tastes bland on his tongue.

Emerging from his stupor, Louis pulls a half-emptied can of peaches from the fridge, along with a tub of sour cream and some sandwich meat.

“That's disgusting,” Eurion says.

Louis cracks the tub open. “It's also expired. Life is an adventure when you can't scrape two nickels together.” He dunks a peach slice in the sour cream, then tosses it in his mouth.

“Didn’t you have a client two nights ago?”

There's a knocking on the door.

“That'll be her,” Rome says, smoothing a hand over his tank top. There's a stain on the white cotton.

“You still trying to look good for her? That's cute,” Eurion says.

Louis’s words are muffled through a mouthful of ham. “She sheen all yer shit, man.”

The door bangs open against the wall, revealing a tall woman with long, russet hair and a gleam in her eyes. A black tracksuit, once fitted and snug, hangs loosely on her figure. She holds two bags on her arm and another in her teeth.

“Babe, what -” Rome moves to help her. “Where did you get all this?”

Salem hands him a bag. When her mouth is free, she pulls him in for a kiss, then tosses her tresses back over her shoulder.

“Where did you get that?” She quips, poking his cheek.

Louis' voice is thick with sour cream. “Observant.”

“Shut up, Louis.” Rome grabs Salem’s hand in his. “It's nothing. Gift from the postman.”

Nick lets out a grunt, stacking his packs and putting them back in the box. “I hope you returned it. Delivery’s short.”

“Again?” Eurion trots over to the counter. “That's the third time now.”

“Why do you care?” Salem glares at him. “You're not smoking. You better not be smoking.”

Only two a day, but there's no way he's telling her that. Last time she caught him, she broke a wooden spoon on his kneecap, a birthday gift their mother had given her.

“Poor service means someone's snubbing Nick.” Eurion takes a swig of beer. “I don't like when people snub us.”

“Nice save."

“Shut up, Louis.”

Peeking into the bag, Rome raises a brow. “What’s this?”

Salem sets the other pair on the table, ignoring Louis’ squawk as his can of peaches tips over. “These two are clothes. That,” she points to Rome’s, “is classified. Put it in the closet, I'll explain later.”

Rome lumbers off, disappearing into the master.

“Classified?” Eurion echoes.

“Never you mind.” Salem hands a bag of clothes to Nick. “These are for you and Eurion. All black, as requested.”

“Nothing for me?” Louis asks.

Salem tousles his hair. “Not today, pretty boy. Couldn’t find anything stylish.” The tone in her voice makes it clear she’s irritated to have lucked out.

Louis chews his lip, thinking. “I’ll have to re-use a few pieces. Maybe Ms. Corvette will take pity and give me an allowance.”

“Oh, to be young and beautiful,” Nick says dryly. “Tell me, how young were you when you started working as professional arm candy?”

“If you mean, ‘how long have I been an emotional escort’, eight years.”

Eurion dumps his empty beer bottle in the trash. “Isn’t sixteen a little young to start in the socialite scene?”

“Takes a while to work your way up,” Louis shrugs. “Plus, business these past three years has sucked. Half my regulars have left the area or been killed.”

Sorting through the last bag, Salem sighs. “Not that I actually like the thought of this, but have you thought of extending your services? You’d double your profits.”

The sound of Louis’ chair scraping on the linoleum gives Eurion goosebumps.

“I’d rather be broke than a full-on prostitute, thanks.” Louis aims his empty peach can for the trash and shoots, using Eurion’s leg as a backboard. The can clatters to the ground.

Eurion scoops it up and tosses it in the bin.

“Speaking of profit,” Rome says, having re-entered the room, “I’ve got sales to make.” He’s wearing faded slacks and a blue dress shirt now. “I think I know someone who can help us with those investments we talked about earlier, Babe; I’ll look in on them on my way back.” He kisses Salem, then heads out the apartment door, slamming it shut behind him.

“What investments?” Eurion demands.

Salem pushes him into a chair. She pulls open a kitchen drawer, withdrawing Dad’s old electric razor.

“Haircut time.”

He rolls his eyes, then pulls his black bomber jacket off. Salem hands him a dish towel to wrap around his shoulders.

“Any requests?”

“Not too short.”

“You're gonna have to give me more than that, kid.”

Louis snaps the lid back onto the sour cream, then returns it to the fridge. “Eurion doesn't understand style, Salem. You got all the good genetics.”

Eurion glares.

“An undercut,” Salem decides. “Side parting, no more of this bowl cut nonsense.”

“It's not a bowl cut.”

“Shut up and sit still.”

The razor makes a whirring sound. Black hair starts falling to the floor.

“Have you heard what they're saying about the new restrictions?” Nick folds his arms and leans back against the counter. “Government’s trying to implement a nine o'clock curfew now.”

“Will anyone follow it?” Salem tilts Eurion’s head sideways, then removes the razor's plastic safeguard.

“Some. The paranoid and brown-nosers always do. Anyone who cares about surviving won't, though… The best money always gets made after dark.”

“What a sick, sick world we live in,” Salem sighs.

Nick lights a smoke. “Don't I know it.”

When he was a kid, Eurion always figured Nick and Salem would end up together. Best friends since childhood; they had to. But when Rome showed up and Nick had no problems with him, Eurion realised those old Hollywood movies were full of shit. Sure, Nick threatened to kill Rome if he hurt Salem. But Eurion had done the same.

“I was thinking, today…” Salem trails off.

“Not too hard, I hope,” Eurion says.

She smacks his head lightly. “I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

“No, I - I was thinking what it would be like if you could get into an online college.”

It’s quiet again.

Eurion doesn't dare look at Nick. “I'm twenty-two. Little bit late, don't you think?”

The razor crawls up his neck, slow and steady. “It's never too late.”

“Salem… We can't afford that.” Eurion stares at the wall. He imagines the target's blood on it, wishes he could scrub the wallpaper. “And even if we could -”

“I just wish you didn't have to do the work you're doing.”

Nick’s eyes are on him. He's sure of it.

“Look, I don't love it either. But we don't accept all the offers. We've never hunted without doing a background check, making sure they deserve the penalty they're getting.”

“There’s a proven process,” Nick says. His voice is quiet, but it cuts through the kitchen. “A few good kills improves your reputation among clients. You start getting higher-profile assignments. High profile equals high pay. If you’re making more money per kill, you don’t have to kill as often.”

“Unless you’re a bill chaser,” Louis points out.

“Which I’m not,” Eurion responds hotly. The razor glides by his ear.

“Exactly.” Nick takes another drag. “He just has to get through the rough patch, Salem. Nobody knows who he is yet.”

The floor is littered in black strands of hair now, Eurion’s knees speckled with them.

Salem’s voice comes out low and shaky. “I’d rather it stayed that way.” The razor shuts off.

“Salem-”

“Wishful thinking, right?” She moves to stand in front of him now, holding a small pair of shears. “I just - Mom and Dad didn’t leave much for me to do, you know? But looking out for you - that’s my responsibility.”

“What do you want me to do?” Eurion clenches a fist, careful to avoid her gaze as well as Nick’s. “I don’t have the personality for sales. Smuggling would mean bringing shit into our home, which endangers everyone. Work for the government? Not a chance.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Louis says, digging through the fridge again, “But you could totally make it in my line of work.”

Eurion scoffs. “Thanks.”

“What? You’ve got a face, kid. Ladies would love those big brown eyes.”

“Not everyone has the ability to smile and listen to people complain about how lonely they are, Louis.”

“Bodyguard.”

Everyone looks at Nick.

“That’s the end goal. Was for me, at least, before I got into the black market. I didn’t have the build for it, anyway, but it’s a profitable position, and usually involves minor violence rather than killing.”

Salem swivels back to Eurion.

“I’ve built up my endurance pretty well,” Eurion says, considering.

Nick nods. “Start working out with Rome and you’ll bulk up a bit. You’re lean, but you’ve got good shoulders. Women pay better for pretty bodyguards, so if you get too big you’ll have less of a market there, but men like their security beefy.”

It's quiet. Florescent light blinks erratic off the shears in Salem's grip. For a moment, Eurion wonders if Rome couldn't make the hydro bill again, but one glance up and he knows it's not the electricity. Salem's hands are trembling.

He reaches out, catches her wrists. Willing himself to meet her gaze, he sees it all: the shadows under her eyes, the tears threatening to spill, the fear that lives in her very irises now.

It sends his gut curling. If he could, he'd never look her in the eye like this, never acknowledge the change in her face, never have to watch his sister turn into this shell of her former self. But she needs him now. More than she did before. He can't be the same selfish kid he used to be.

Forcing a small laugh, he says,

"Seems a long time ago I wanted to be a professional gamer, huh?"

A week passes.

I’m supposed to go to school, to finish my last night of grade 12 with a bang. To don the wine-red cap and gown, ascend the stage with my classmates, shake hands and get my diploma.

I sit on the back porch and smoke.

It’s the stupidest thing to do, really; Vyvian would be furious if he saw it.

“Want to wreck your lungs?” He’d ask. “Get cancer on purpose?”

I’m not being fair. But the thought of him being angry with me is better than the reality of him not being at all.

Dad smoked for years, since before he and Mom met. He quit when Vyvian was diagnosed the first time.

“Don’t want to make the kid sicker than he is,” he’d said, like his smoking hadn’t been a contributing factor.

He left soon after that.

The screen door slides open.

“They’ll miss your speech,” Mom says. I hear the intake of breath when she spots the cigarette between my lips. “Jon-Luke, get that filthy thing out of your mouth right now.” She grabs it from me, throws it to the porch, stomps it flat with her slipper.

“It makes you look like your father,” she says. An angry flush crosses her cheeks. “It’s a disgusting habit, and it kills”-

Her voice breaks.

The sun is setting behind the mountains, throwing shadows over the lawn. I kick my feet over the edge of the porch, imagining a smaller pair of sneakers swinging beside me.

“Sorry,” I lie. “I won’t do it again.”

The wood creaks as Mom sits beside me.

“I’m not the valedictorian. Just the class historian. They won’t miss me.”

She crosses her legs, charcoal smeared across the bottom of her slippers. “Everyone misses you, Jon-Luke. Your friends have been calling, saying they can’t get ahold of you.”

My cell phone is in the back of my closet. Same place I threw it when I got the news.

Mom runs her hand over my hair. “Don’t disappear, okay?”

Her touch is too much.

I pull away.

Summer brings heat, sunshine, the smell of mown grass and the taste of lemonade.

My hands turn rough and blistered from blue collar work. It pays well. I might enjoy it, too, if not for the fact that it leaves my mind free to wander.

September nears. The boss calls me into his office.

“Crew treating you well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Glad to hear it. You’re a good worker, Jon-Luke.”

He leans back in his swivel chair, turns it slightly. “I’d like to have you stay on, if you’re interested. The job’s got good benefits, and you’ll be set for years if you keep up the way you have been. What do you say?”

Mom pinned my university acceptance letter to the fridge. Stuck the email confirming my scholarship right next to it.

“I’ll have to think about it.”

He nods. “Take the week to decide. If you still want to leave, you’ll get a good reference letter.”

Letters, letters, letters.

My boots send up little dust clouds as I cross the worksite back to my post, slip my fingers back into a pair of the gloves, stiff and new. My second pair of the summer. First ones were old anyway - Dad’s, leftover from past winters of loading firewood. Holes in the end of a few fingers. It didn’t take much work to see how useless they were.

Fitting.

Mateo looks down at me from his ladder as I pass, neon orange hard hat flashing in the sun. He’ll take that thing off the second he’s on the ground, wipe a brown arm over his sweaty, receding hairline, crack a grin at anyone nearby and suggest getting a new company policy for supplying ice-cold beer on site. I’ve seen him do it a dozen times.

It was the first thing he said to me after the funeral. You look like you need a drink, kid. Too bad the union doesn’t supply IDs, eh?

Ingrid pulled me aside later. Said it was in bad taste, that Mateo should’ve been more respectful, and the clap she gave my shoulder was lighter than I’d thought those massive hands could manage. As though I needed to be “handled with care”.

I avoided her after that.

Being treated differently is just a reminder that everything is different.

I’m sore from sitting in this pew.

There’s a crick in my neck from staring at my lap. But I can’t look at the coffin, can’t look at the pastor drawling on. So I stare at my knees, focusing on the crease of my black slacks, fiddle with the end of the tie choking air from my lungs.

After, I hear them. Voices, hushed murmurs, everyone’s two cents about my younger brother, talking as if they knew him, talking as if they had any idea what he was like.

“Such a sweetheart, that one. Quiet - but always with that big smile.”

“I remember when he won that math award a few years back, his parents were so proud! I think he tripped on his way up the stage, but then he gave a peace sign to the crowd and everyone was laughing. He knew how to keep things light… What a kid.”

“Didn’t he give your boy his baseball glove last summer? Once he knew- I mean… once he was no longer able to play?”

Sugar-infused punch washes down my throat. I’ve never wanted to be drunk this badly, but alcohol would never be allowed at the funeral. Never be allowed anywhere, so long as Dad’s in the vicinity.

“Poor Cameron… first her man, now her little boy… at least Jon-Luke got that scholarship. That’s something to be thankful for.”

I’m not a violent person.

I’m not a violent person.

I will not be a violent person.

In the car, Mom turns to me. Her eyes are red. The wrinkles lining her forehead look a thousand times deeper.

“Let’s go home,” she says, patting my knee.

Her voice is like sandpaper.

I nod, because that’s all I can manage, and we pull out of the gravel parking lot. The tie comes off on my third attempt. Staring out the window, I massage my neck.

“He was sixteen,” I say. Townhouses rush by in a blur.

Mom says nothing.

“Everyone keeps calling him a little kid. He would hate that.”

Blue sky shouldn’t be allowed today. This is a day for rain, for drenching rain, maybe some thunder. Not some stupid, bright, open expanse. Sunlight turns our car into an easy-bake oven.

“Some happy-go-lucky kid. A good sport, a generous boy, a sweetheart.” Cranking the AC, I look at her. “Do you remember him like that?”

She’s crying again. Soundlessly, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“None of them saw him angry. The way he never shared his game console with the cousins. None of them had to listen to him crying and yelling and pulling what was left of his hair out.”

“Jon-Luke.”

My throat obstructs.

Wiping her nose, Mom asks, “Did you talk to Dad?”

“I didn’t see him.”

“He was at the back of the church. Got there on time and everything. You should have talked to him, he’s taking this hard too.”

I look out the window again.

Is a man who walked away allowed to take this hard? A man who only now slunk back into our lives after six years of absence, bringing his addictions and spineless ways with him?

“He hated him. Vyvian.” My brother’s name weighs on my tongue. “He hated dad.”

We drive past a park, its empty slides and swing sets staring back at us.

I think about burning the tie in my hands. Digging Dad’s old cigarette lighter out of the drawer in Mom’s bedroom and turning the piece of silk to ashes. How would it smell? Sweet? Bitter?

Like plain old smoke?

Mom turns onto the highway. Her knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

“Vyvian didn’t know how to hate anyone,” she says.

leaving the anger behind me

was like letting go of a serpent

i’d held on so long out of fear

the fear of what came next

the fear of trying to start over

the fear of failing to find “new”

that i’d let myself be poisoned again

and again

and again

because of my own clenched fist

This is a true story. It was related to me by my grandmother, my Omi, before her dementia set in. I honestly, truly, believe this could be made into a film.

--------------------------------------

On October 21st, 1952, Omi's 20th birthday, it was time for her to leave her family and country. She was to leave the Netherlands and reunite with her fiancee in Canada. He had gone on ahead 2 years prior. He was a hardworking man, and had served in Indonesia in the Dutch Navy before going to Canada. During his time in service, he wrote Omi 360 letters.

Omi could not pack very many belongings. She had to decide what to do with the letters, and did not want her younger sisters to read them - so, she burned them.

Omi's mother, sister, and aunt said goodbye to her at the train station. Her dad and father-in-law-to-be went with her on the train to Rotterdam. Once there, they got permission to come aboard for a visit, since Omi's father had been a customs officer. They toured the ship, and the time came to say goodbye.

Omi, now age 92, told me, "I can still see my dad standing there. It was the last time I saw him."

From Rotterdam, the ship sailed to France. Upon leaving Le Havre, the weather became very stormy. Omi shared a hut with seven other woman and a baby; his little steel crib would slide from side to side in the cabin, moved by the swaying of the ship upon the ocean.

Staying in the cabin was lonely; several of the other women were standoffish. They were traveling with family, and did not talk to other people. She had no one her age to talk to in her living space, so she spent time touring the ship.

Her wanderings led her to meet a young gentleman with a story similar to hers; he was sailing to Canada as well, to meet his own fiancée. Omi and the young man had something in common, and it made her feel safer and less alone. They spent most of the trip in each other's company, talking about Canada - what would it be like? How would the landscape look? How would life be different there? They would have to study English. Dutch was not the common language in Canada.

After 12 days of sailing, the ship reached Canada. Omi's plan was to take the train from Halifax to Union Station in Toronto; the young man was also going to Toronto, and asked: why do we not travel together? We can keep each other company a little longer.

Omi agreed.

The train was very old. There were no blankets, and passengers had to sleep on wooden benches. Pillows could be rented for $0.25 a night.

Omi did not like the Canadian scenery; the weather was very dreary. But the trip was a lot more pleasant in the young man's company.

He lent Omi his coat to use as a blanket. She was shy to sleep next to a man she did not know, but he turned his back to her and faced the wall so she would feel more comfortable. She turned her back to his and they slept like that for the 2 nights it took to arrive.

At 6:00 a.m. on the 3rd day, they arrived in Toronto and disembarked. The young man waited with Omi at the station for her fiancée.

Omi's fiancée arrived with a cane. He had been in a motorcycle accident, and was still recovering. Along with him was his brother, who had just gotten off work at a mechanic shop, and was covered in grime and oil.

The young man was hesitant to leave Omi when he saw this. He was concerned for her safety. She reassured him that she would be fine, and, eventually, he left.

Omi and her fiancée were married a week later.

Life in Canada was a hard adjustment. Omi did not speak much English, and her husband did not either. They had not been together for 2 years, and it took time to grow used to each other again. He found work at a factory doing manual labor, and Omi busied herself with housework. It was not long before she discovered she was pregnant.

A year passed.

Things were easier now then at the beginning. Omi was a happy mother, doting on her little boy. Her husband was learning conversational English from his workplace, and Omi was doing the same in her bible study at the church they had recently become members of.

On a warm Saturday morning, Omi was serving pancakes to her husband, and spoon feeding applesauce to her little boy, when there was a knock at the front door of the house.

She went to open it. Standing in the doorway was the young man from the ship.

He had not married his own fiancée. They had gone their separate ways.

He had used the passenger listing information from the ship to track down Omi's whereabouts.

He wondered if maybe - just maybe - if she had not gotten married either.

He wondered if she would be with him.

When Omi told me this story, she could not give all the details of the interaction; she could not bring herself to say everything.

She told me, however, that after saying goodbye and closing the door, she stared at that door for a long time.

Then, slowly, she went back to the kitchen, where her little boy and her husband - my Opi - were waiting.

She never saw the young man again. One year, while cleaning, she threw away her own copy of the passenger listing, not thinking about how time changes things, not thinking how one day, she might want to look at it again.

That is her biggest regret.

She does not even remember his name.

withered, paling

i never thought you were the fragile type

hollow, swaying

you met the Woodsman and he's got a bite

evergreen words

in twisted verse

he smiles maroon and he takes your fight

cedar scent

you're breaking, bent

fade out under the faerie lights

why'd you run to the trees

to the mossy green

when the rivers always treated you right?

why'd you mar your feet?

all that dirt and heat

would've washed away in the water bright

but you've sunken into the scene

your name, you forget what it means

the Woodsman's got your heart and you've melded with the bark

you're a broken little forest queen

It’s a rule of thumb in my family that we call each other out on our bullshit. Bottling things up doesn’t fly; it’s stupid, we figure, and just prolongs the problem. Most of us are confrontational by nature. It’s easier this way.

The thing is - we’re supposed to stay logical. It’s not that we can’t express emotions - emotions just don’t hold against tough love reality.

You’re pissed because someone told you that you handled a dating situation badly? It’s true. Do better next time. Move on.

You’re offended because someone said you need to stop complaining about never having time to clean your house? Stop committing to every little social thing and solve your own problem. Boom.

You don’t like when people joke around about you always asking if your boyfriend of six months is also invited to the party? We’re not mocking you - it was just funny.

A lot of people don’t get it, the way we talk so openly with each other; they see two or more of us arguing over something and think we’re actually fighting, or that they need to intervene, or that shit’s about to hit the fan. Back up, buddy - this is communication. We don’t do grudges; and if someone tries, they’re probably doing too much navel-gazing. It’s healthier than the ‘let’s pretend the problem doesn’t exist’ method. It’s better than ‘beat around the bush and gaslight’. It’s faster than sitting in therapy for two months indirectly insulting each other and playing the victim.

… right?

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(This started as a journal entry, but I'm playing around with the idea of using it as the start of a novella or something. Let me know your thoughts!)