Something softer

Hair between my fingers, I screamed to make the noise stop to just make it quiet in my head, if only for an instant.

She couldn’t hear me this time; she was crying, she had to be crying, the way I am, with how I deal with these things. I don’t know how she could know me and not cry.

I can’t tell how long I’ve been like this. Months? Years? Everything turns blue when I try to remember. Nothing makes any sense, nothing tells me what I need to know, what I need to do to just turn it off.

Two hundred miles away, I was the one being wronged.

I’ve never been able to express how strongly I feel about her, and so I shy away from the attempt for fear of misrepresenting myself. By doing so, I misrepresent her.

How I feel can only be expressed in the space between words.

I walked with five thousand angry people to protest the war on Iraq, but it was an impotent anger. As a Canadian, there’s no real target for me to direct my rage, no culpable authority to subvert.

I watched Iraqi mothers and Israeli citizens alike scream at the American embassy, but the five RCMP officers that were there to keep the peace and take photographs made it difficult to maintain any sense of imminent threat; just five tired men working crowd control, and an empty grey monolith with the American eagle on the door.

Leave a Reply