A year ago today, I arrived at Pearson International Airport with one big suitcase, knocked numb and hazy from Cat's wisdom tooth surgery painkillers she had given me to soothe my nerves for the plane. The reality of the move sunk in as I rode in the stiflingly hot backseat of my aunt's car.
That night, Felizia and I walked to the Big Carrot. I bought juice and vegetables to calm me. I got out a little piece of paper and called Andrew, asked him if he and Paul were still coming to visit me the next day. I put on the new shoes my dad had bought me. I cried as quietly as I could.
I thought of the little calendars I had kept in my room for months, counting down the days until I moved. I thought about how I stopped ticking the boxes towards the end. I thought about excited whisperings to Cat and Alison at Louis' one march night.
There are so many ways this place has become home, big and small: heartbreak, building a map of the city in my head, making fantastic friends, a shitty job, a great job, the discovery of beautiful tiny city secrets, getting lost and found on public transit, falling in love.
Tonight my roommates (upstairs and downstairs) are having a barbecue (and don't worry, there will be veggie burgers, and they will be grilled first) and I couldn't imagine better timing.
It is a good time for me to be alive.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
I know I haven't updated in almost a month. For most of March, I just couldn't think of anything interesting to say (not that that's ever stopped me), and this past week has been of particular difficulty. It's been very hard to talk to anyone or make myself do anything.
On Monday, March 30th, I, along with all of my coworkers (some friends, some strangers) was informed that my dear friend and colleague had passed away. Out of respect to him, who was always a very private man, I don't wish to say too much about his role in relation to mine at work, but suffice to say we worked together every day since I began working there. I feel uncomfortable disclosing his cause of death, but yet I feel I must, for I'm simply not up for telling everyone separately now, and it is an important factor. He took his own life.
He was a big reason why I enjoy my work. Every day between ten and eleven (depending how busy it was), we'd make earl grey tea together. He did a perfect Ali G impression that made me laugh every time. There are never enough pens where we work, and they always go missing, so we'd routinely re-enact the "My Pen!" sketch from Kids in the Hall. He was a deeply spiritual and religious man, and right before he stopped coming to work, he lent me a fantastic book, which I wrote about here (the one about Islam and the West). He always wore birkenstocks, and up until the end of this week, they were still there in my workspace, tucked under a table. I kept staring at them and thinking "dead man's shoes", a phrase the origins of which I can't recall. It made me feel guilty. He is not a dead man, but my friend.
One time we discussed the band Einstuerzende Neubauten, him mentioning he had seen them in concert. After this friday, I had one of their songs stuck in my head and thought of how much it described this friend. Particularly, the line "it's in the open, but it doesn't get stolen". In a way, we all recognized how beautiful and amazing he was, but at the same time we never really got it. He was underappreciated. I never asked him if anything was wrong, because it never seemed like anything was.
My dear friend, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't ask. I'm sorry I didn't tell you everyday how helpful you were to me, sorry that I didn't thank you for your patience and hard work. I miss you so much. We all do. I hope you found what you were looking for.
On Monday, March 30th, I, along with all of my coworkers (some friends, some strangers) was informed that my dear friend and colleague had passed away. Out of respect to him, who was always a very private man, I don't wish to say too much about his role in relation to mine at work, but suffice to say we worked together every day since I began working there. I feel uncomfortable disclosing his cause of death, but yet I feel I must, for I'm simply not up for telling everyone separately now, and it is an important factor. He took his own life.
He was a big reason why I enjoy my work. Every day between ten and eleven (depending how busy it was), we'd make earl grey tea together. He did a perfect Ali G impression that made me laugh every time. There are never enough pens where we work, and they always go missing, so we'd routinely re-enact the "My Pen!" sketch from Kids in the Hall. He was a deeply spiritual and religious man, and right before he stopped coming to work, he lent me a fantastic book, which I wrote about here (the one about Islam and the West). He always wore birkenstocks, and up until the end of this week, they were still there in my workspace, tucked under a table. I kept staring at them and thinking "dead man's shoes", a phrase the origins of which I can't recall. It made me feel guilty. He is not a dead man, but my friend.
One time we discussed the band Einstuerzende Neubauten, him mentioning he had seen them in concert. After this friday, I had one of their songs stuck in my head and thought of how much it described this friend. Particularly, the line "it's in the open, but it doesn't get stolen". In a way, we all recognized how beautiful and amazing he was, but at the same time we never really got it. He was underappreciated. I never asked him if anything was wrong, because it never seemed like anything was.
My dear friend, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't ask. I'm sorry I didn't tell you everyday how helpful you were to me, sorry that I didn't thank you for your patience and hard work. I miss you so much. We all do. I hope you found what you were looking for.
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