Existential Waitress

Friday, November 28, 2008

Wasted Days and Wasted Nights

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It is Time. People of the Tribe. My long lost tribe. I wonder how this finds you? I hope so much this finds you. It has been six years since my last post, February 1st. I was picking myself up and dusting myself off to continue the race. I now know that I was limping to the sidelines. I watched the other runners go by and am now ready to join them again. Nothing drastic happened, dear friends. Just a giving in to the crushing responsibilities of raising a family without a village. My three teenagers I wrote of are all accomplished adults now and the two little girls who darted in and out of my stories are now 11 and 13. It is time. Since we last spoke, I have had the privilege of greeting hundreds of babies as they entered the world. I have worked on a project in India, started one in Africa and felt the boxes I have tried to squeeze myself into begin to chafe. We have moved from a house onto a boat and I am rocked to sleep at night and awoken by our neighbourly ducks. Canada is still home. I have learned to live with the constant homesickness for somewhere I can’t quite place. Africa? France? I have carried dear friends with me, through the wonders of technology and in my heart. Edouard, the subject of one my posts, called a couple of years ago to tell me he had Stage Four stomach cancer. I sat around the table with my family and we all traced around our hands whilst sending loving thoughts. I cut each one out and sent them to him, a bouquet of hands with instructions to place his own palms on them for strength and love. So much love. In true Edouard fashion, he spurned further chemo and instead set out on the Camino de Santiago. He walked several hundred kilometers, gaining more friends and losing even more weight. One morning I awoke to the dull certainty that today was the day. A slow tearing away at a part of me I didn’t want to lose. I frantically tried to reach him with no luck. Eventually I managed to get a number for his daughter and left a message. About four hours later she called me. “Putain” she said. “He has been asking for you, to speak to you.” “C’est trop tard. C’est fini.” “He died an hour ago.” I can’t imagine a world without Edouard and I have learned that I don’t have to. We had joked about how lack of physical proximity had never got in the way of our friendship before and that death would not either. He promised to answer my call if ever I needed to chat. We talked about precisely what format that would take – I didn’t want anything vague. Edouard said he would choose a song and all I needed to do was turn on the radio and he would play it to let me know he was listening. Given his eclectic taste in music I asked him to narrow it down or even choose the song now so I could be sure. I could almost see the glint in his eye when he said, “I have been listening to a lot of rap lately.” An hour after I heard of his death I was driving to work, my cheeks wet with tears. I primed Edouard and turned on the radio. A song I had never heard came on, Wiz Kalifa “See You Again.” That is our song. Whenever I need his specific brand of encouragement I only have to turn on the radio and it always comes on. It is not new or particularly popular so I know it is Edouard. After I wrote this post this morning, it was playing on 3 different radio stations in the space of 25 minutes. Merci Edouard, mon ami tres chere. Have a listen, everyone needs to meet Edouard. If you find yourself with a sudden desire to travel or love everyone you come across he will have come to visit. So many more characters continue to humble me and enrich my life and if you like, you can tune back in to meet them. I have learned recently that you can meet someone by chance and they can breathe the life back into your bones. They can ignite your marrow and make it course down to the end of your fingertips. They can ask you to close your eyes while they guide your hand back to your pen. You may fail, and fail again. You can fail six times, or seven but this is of no consequence. Pick up the pen.
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Existential Waitress

Friday, November 28, 2008

Wasted Days and Wasted Nights

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