You are long and tall and sliver thin. Appeared one day unannounced. As surely you will disappear one day soon.

It will start like any other day. The morning will  be neither too hot nor too cold. I will leave the house not too early and not too late. I will park, buy coffee and walk the cobblestones to front door of the building.

The foyer will seem darker than usual, though the outside light will be unremarkable for this hour of the day. It will seem quieter in a way that I can’t quite identify. And as I wait for the elevator ‘s regular slowness, I will realize that you are gone.

Not a trace of you left behind.

I will try to remember what ear you tucked your hair behind as you walked the halls so fluid and soundless and smooth; the shape of your words, their texture as they formed on your lips; the way your palm felt as we shook hands.

“Claire,” you said.

But strive as I might, I will not be able to remember one single thing.

And standing alone in the elevator slowly making its way to the fourth floor, I will begin to suspect that perhaps you were never really here at all.

It’s storm season. The best time to be here. On clear days there is just horizon, vast and unending until the shores of Japan. But not today. Not today or tomorrow or the day after that. In fact, for weeks until spring will be all roil and smash, hurl and tumult, wind and squall, thunder and lightening and rage.

You buy rain gear at the supply store in town. It’s yellow and heavy and rubber; old school. She looks like she has been wearing it her whole life. Your sleeves don’t quite reach your wrists and your pants end some distance from your ankles.

On the beach hidden amongst the driftwood are large glass weights, translucent green and the size of grapefruits, used to keep the nets down; bright orange buoys, the kind flung over deck, protection of dock from haul and haul from dock; pieces of thick rope, knotted and oily; eagle feathers, black and white and grey, long and light and stiff; so sharp at the point of the hollow shaft that you are sure you could write with it.

Hundreds of bull kelp strewn about the sand. Large bulbous heads attached to impossibly long tapered tails.

Migration.

As if in mid voyage, an inexplicable urge; an electrical pulse of confusion blazes through their neurons causing them to

change course.

Tails whipping through the water; gliding in the slipstream of their brothers and sisters; the current pushing them fast through the dark sea. Some primal flaw convincing “this way to the breeding grounds”.

Their momentum carries them far up on shore. Sharp rocks gouge and tear their smooth bodies. Landfall sucks oxygen from their lungs.

They die on a beach, a hundred miles from any kind of help. Where on a clear day you can see most of the way to Japan.

You haven’t ever contemplated the sky at 2am in your backyard while you wait for the dog to go pee. However, at other times, you certainly have. Sitting on the patio chairs that you and your wife moved out from the patio enclosure so you could be closer to the acres and acres of grape vines. The lights of the cars visible as they drove to and fro on the country roads; one and then after along while, another. The dry grass cut short and prickly underfoot. The drone of the cicadas crescendoing, then falling and stopping; a brief respite before starting all over again.

The wine bottle within easy reach, tucked neatly between the chair legs. And the sky. Now dark. Stars just starting to announce themselves. You feel yourself breath. Long deep breaths. The kind that are true and genuine; the kind you feel like you has been holding in for months.

You wonder how this is possible. This oasis; this haven, this sanctuary to which you have sought refuge. Only two hours ago you were in the city. Only two hours ago you were encased in concrete and glass and one-way roads and construction which suffocates life to a standstill. The city where you only see pieces of sky:

cerulean with wisps of ivory clouds from the backyard

blazing lavender sunsets from the office

an austere cobalt, bright and sharp as knife’s blade as you drive to work.

Separate pieces, as if they are clues to a whole so awesome, so unfathomable that you are not able or not allowed to view due to your inability to comprehend.

And you live with this arrangement, the tacit understanding that you will only ever have one parcel; one expression of the infinite possibility of the sky. You try your best not to think about it. Because when you do, your chest tightens and your breath gets shallower as you stuff your yearning to be enveloped by the edge-less impossible expanse, deep, deep down.

On the days when you can’t do it fast enough; when you can’t quash this feeling, a scream that you can no longer contain barrels out of your lungs and hurls itself out of your mouth. Exhausted, you topple backwards onto the cool grass, face up at your turquoise allotment and squeeze you eyes shut; as tight as you can.

He listened to one of his newly discovered podcasts as he drove home from work in the snow. This one was called Levar Burton reads. The premise of the show is that Levar Burton, the actor, perhaps best known for playing Geordi La Forge in Star Trek, will every week pick a piece of short fiction that he enjoys, and then will read it. There is no relationship or connective tissue between the stories, other than the fact that he enjoys them.

This is the first episode that he has downloaded. If someone will ask him how he came to discover this podcast, he doubts that he could come up with any kind of an answer. Although forever a story fan and an enthusiast of language in general; this isn’t the kind of podcast that he naturally gravitates to. The ones that he mostly listens to when driving to and from work, to and from swimming lessons, to and from baseball practice, to and form playdates and the groceryt store and dropping the Nanny at the subway, on the nighs when he and his wife would have a cocktail or two after work at the Keg in the middle of the week; the podcasts that he would listen to during these times were political podcasts: slate’s Trumpcast, NPR politics, and VOX The Wees, the Ezra Klein show, and of course, perhaps his favorite one of all: The Axe Files with David Axelrod. And although he still listens to these he finds himself struggling with the relevance and up-to-dateness of the content. They always seem forever behind since most of the new editions come out on Thursday afternoon, and having to wait a whole week to hear about a conversation about the crazy that happens what seems like everyday, he has decided is not the best way to stay relevant, contemportary and up-to-speed. So he made the switch to fiction; narratives that are timeless, enduring, and can always teach us something about ourselves, no matter when they were written he thought.

Lavar Burton reads is actually his second foray into audible literature. He had heard on CBC, while randomly listening to a show in the middle of the afternoon, the kind of show he wasn’t even aware existed, a conversation about podcasts. There was a women whose name he did not recognize. Her voice was not like a newcasters voice, it was high and lilting and full of curiousity.  She talking to her co-host, a name and voice that he recognized immediately as the host of the national morning show. At the end of a conversation about a totally unrelated matter, the woman mentioned a podcast that she was fond of called The Paris Review. She said it was smart and well produced and definitely worth a listen.  He knew of The Paris Review literary publication. He knew it published essays and poems and short fiction and literary critque; he assumed the podcast must be the same sort of thing.

He easily found it on Apple Itunes and downloaded 2 episodes. Just in case that the first one was not up to his liking, he could quickly tee up he second one that may be more his style; that may make him laugh out loud in the car like a crazy person, or stretch a smile across his cheeks, or make his throat constrict ever so slightly with sorrow, or make him take pause and think  ‘that is so fucking great!’ after hearing a line, put together so sublimely; that sucked the breath write out of him, and left him thinking as his lungs refilled with air; if her will ever write a sentence that was half that good.

The Paris Review podcast differed somewhat from what he thought it may be like. There was music, a theme song, that played loud and prominently at first but then faded into the background when a womens voice announced the agenda for the show. Famous actors read the stories and soundtracks were added to enhance the sense of place for the listener; for instance, in one part of a story there was a scene that took place in a universty cafeteria and noises from the canteen played in the background; placing you right there beside them in line.

He liked the first story that he heard, it was titled GOD. It was written by Benjamin Nugent. The actor, Jesse Eisenberg, gave voice to the protagonist. The setting was a university Frat house. It examined the nature of the relationships formed in house and  and the event that took place that would sever these bonds of brotherhood.

After the story there was a commercial for audio books. Then, as the women’t voice had promised before the break, there was poetry. The poem was by John Ashbury. An original recording reading before a live audience. Before the recording played, the narrator commented that Mr. Ashbury wrote poems influenced by abstract expressionism, a movement of painting that focused on “nonrepresentational methods of picturing reality”. In other words, she said, he wrote poems the way that Jackson Pollack painted. She said that it wasn’t for everyone, but those that could get past this method of creating had a wonderful treasure store for them. And then he started to read. It was an old recording and he sounded quite far away, even though he was probably  standing right beside the mike. Even before Mr.Ashbury had started, in fact, at somep oint after after the first story and before the poem, he knew that he was hooked; that this will become one of his go to pod casts; that he will download 3 episodes at a time; quickly filling up whatever memory space his phone has left.

When it had finished, after she had given credit to all the folks who helped make the episode, he had planned to listen to the rest of the story.  The story that Levar Burton is reading. But he searched he podcast library on his phone he realized that he had one not-yet-listened-to political podcast waiting for his attention; forty five minutes with David Axelrod. David’s guest for the episode was Whoopi Goldberg. He was intrigued. She wasn’t like most of the guests that Mr. Axelrode invited on the show. No, she certainly was not. Most of the people who sit in that chair are governers and senators, congressman and house minority leaders, press secretarys and secretarys of state from past administrations. He pressed play.

During the conversation he learned that her real name was Caryn Elaine Johnson; that sher grew up in the projects in Chelsea; that she is dyslexic and she dropped out of high school; that she has one daughter; that she is one of the few actors who has an Emmy, Grammy, Tony and an Oscar. In fact, she was at the time, only the second black actress in history to win an Oscar! He learned that she refers to the current president as “the big man” or ‘the man upstairs” or the “big boss in charge” and refuses to acknowledge him by his proper name and title. Perhaps its disgust, maybe a protest of non-recognition, a refusal to validate?

After the Axe Files had ended and David had thanked Whoopi for the conversation; the jazz music played signaling the end of the podcast. Its also the same jazz music that starts every episode. And as he listened he always wonders the same thing, is it it part of a song that he could buy on Itunes, and if it is, is the rest of the song as good as this one little piece, or is it one of those songs you have to wait out just to hear this hook? And if it was a song and not a bespoke tune for the show, could he buy it a-la-carte or would he have to purchase an entire album to acquire it. Anyway he liked the way it made him feel: lighter, a little bit brainer, alive, as if he was somehow, just the tiniest amount, farther ahead.

He was stopped. The light was red. He was the third car back and decided it was an opportune time to check back in with Levar Burton. He resumed listening to the story at the same place he had left it. There 6 minutes and 4 seconds left. Lola, the protagonist is driving home from the bowling alley when she thinks she spies the teenager who had broken into her appartment; who had urinated in her toilet and not flushed; who had eaten all of her bananas, and most importantly – stolen her prize bowling ball which cost $140 and its bag which she paid $10 to have her name custom embroidered.

He hit play.

Six minutes and 4 seconds later found him halfway up the connector. It was snowing noticibly harder than when he had left and traffic was moving slower than usual. The story ended with Lola confronting the teenager in the Quickie Mart at the gas station. After several attempts to get her ball back and being rebuked every time, she decides to take the action of rolling her bowling ball down the aisle at him as if he were a recently set pin. That was how the story ended.

After Levar Burton had finished, there was a moment of silence before he shard his analysis of the story. Mr. Burton remarked on the way that Lola had come alive; fully realized the person that she is; an awareness that was only learned after the death of her husband. He reflected that this is common, particularly amongst couples that have been married a long time. He shared the insight that he felt that his mother, who had recently passed, was in some ways sinilar to Lola. That her reason for being, discovered in later life, was to spread lightness and joy.

He had reached the top of the connector and had made the turn onto the road which he lived. It was full of snow. The plow had not yet been by. People had put their recycling and organic waste bins, in the designated blue and green containers, by the curb for collection in the morning.

He thought about John Ashbury, his words crackling, hissing, popping, forever preserved, a digital fossil to be unearthed and examined and displayed and enjoyed time and time and time again.

He thought about Caryn/Whoopi; her rise out of the projects; her overcoming dyslexia; her multitude of recognitions for all the beauty she’s put into the world.

But more than anything he thought about Lola and the crazy amount of courage it took to find herself, to admit to her true being and foster it and live it and love it when her whole world had seemingly been taken away.

He pulled into the drive way. The truck rising over the bank of snow. He pressed the gas and the vehicle shimmied from side to side, lurched forward, before its tires stopped gaining purchase, sinking deep in the snow.

Tomorrow he will walk the dog, feed the dog, make breakfasts, pack lunches, put library books in backpacks, drive to morning basketball practice, work, walk the dog, review homework, drive to evening baseball practice, put on pajamas, brush teeth, read bedtime stories, organize gym clothes, and walk the dog.

Fuck ya, he will!

He scampers to the fence line that he follows to the large pine. And proceeds to eat leafs that have not been buried by the snow. His impossible darkness; you can barley see him, in the light sometimes it’s hard. Only his random gagging on leaf fibres gives hime away. Then he pounces out from under the tree and bounds into the middle of the yard. He buries his snout in the dry powder. Emerges with a cold white beard from the tops of his ears to the corners of his mouth. A leaf stem dangles from the corner of his lips.

And you know you have to tell him.

It won’t always be like this Charley, you say. Spring is coming. Spring is cool. There are flowers and shoots and blossoms and all kinds of stuff just explodes into being. And then; then it’s Summer, buddy! There is going to be shorts and t-shirts and sticky sweaty nights and swimming and….warmth.

It’s a thing. A gorgeously awesome, highly anticipated thing that you will love with a fury and intensity and an unbridled all-in-ness, the way you love everything; and the way we desperately want to love you.

Let’s go inside.

You got 3 hours. Quick…sleep!  Slide into the exquisite unconscious. Dream; float somewhere far away. Feel the warmth of the duvet; the caress of the soft pillow. Quick…sleep! For the barking will come soon. The cold wet of the backyard awaits. Soft paws on clear ice. Orange and red maple leaves encased below. Tongue, pink; shocking against black fur, laps and laps and laps. Hard claws, dig and dig and dig. Some evenings you chant: Pee doggy pee! Pee doggy pee! You set the words free in the 2am stillness – hoping they will land upon soft floppy ears and he will. But other times, like tonight, you keep these words deep down inside; afraid they will jinx this whole venture if you utter them out loud. And then he scampers into the garden. Pees on the azaela stalks jutting through the snow; the ones he also likes to eat. Good doggy! Good doggy! Back inside you place him in his create; shut the door. Head downstairs to the couch; set the alarm. You got 3 hours. Quick…sleep!

It starts to snow. The edges of his blades carve into the uneven ice. He barely remembers what it feels like to to glide and carve and shift direction; to stop. It seems like a hundred years ago when it all came natural and smooth, like breathing. He has never been the best skater. Never been one of those guys who look like they are floating. No, it had always been work for as long as he could remember. But the fun was always there.

The push to see just how fast he could go; the sounds of steel slicing into frozen water; the slide and the spray of slush splashing up; a confirmation of the manouever now complete. He feels the cold wind pushing on the back of his neck. The memory of freedom, of control; taking his body any direction he wanted. A wholesale shift with only the slightest turn of the blade. At the time it seemed so easy; so ingrained; as if stitched into the very weave of his DNA. Now it seems so very far away, a distant memory of what was, what could have been, and what never will be again.

But this isn’t why he skates now. It isn’t about recreating old memories or satiating a yearning for the days when he was young and strong with what seemed like the whole world in front of him. No, the reason he skates now is to find the moment.

His 9 year old son motors around the rink, with tilted ankles and long legs pushing off left and right, purposely gaining speed to then slide across the ice, arms and legs akimbo, a smile exploding on his face.

His daughter, a five year old with sandy blond hair streaming out beneath her black helmut and tumbling down her rosy cheeks. She holds on to the blue plastic walker as she moves around the rink until she gets bored and reaches for his hand and then her brothers and then her mothers; and then no ones. Her feet moving in choppy strokes; body bolt upright, hands waving back and forth at her sides, doing their best to fight gravity which threatens to topple her backwards onto the ice.

His wife moves the same way without skates; beautifully and smoothly assured; gliding and then stopping; starting again with ease, only the gentlest of efforts, moving alongside her son or daughter, or both, for a pep talk, a skating tip, or simply to be a silent skating companion.

And as the snow starts and the family glides around the ice. When there is only now; this small beat of time on a snowy rink in the middle of the city; when their breath hangs silent in the air; he is quite certain that he has found the moment, the one we spend so much of our lives chasing only to pay so little attention when it actually arrives.