Water is good for you
But tap water is best
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Sahara (acrostic)
Sahara is a desert in
Africa and has little rain and
High temperatures though
Animals, plants, and people get water from
Rivers that flow through
Africa's big desert.
Africa and has little rain and
High temperatures though
Animals, plants, and people get water from
Rivers that flow through
Africa's big desert.
My moment
I saw whales in the Atlantic Ocean
I heard the whales spurt moist air
I smelled the whales’ burps
I felt the waves bumping the boat
I tasted the salt air
I heard the whales spurt moist air
I smelled the whales’ burps
I felt the waves bumping the boat
I tasted the salt air
Ripe Royal Galas
It’s Saturday, and we’re on our way to the grocery store, a weekly tradition.
My mother has her black sundress on; I’m wearing my red T-shirt. We stroll under sugar maples and the occasional willow, the wind tickling our necks, our footsteps falling silently on the sidewalk. I missed this trip last week, when I was at camp, and I nearly forgot about all the feelings and movements associated with it. Our shoulders sometimes brush against each other, our legs swing in rhythm. There are no words but it is a comfortable silence, and I suddenly become acutely aware of how much I missed it last week. And how much I will miss it when I leave home for university.
“Mommy,” I say, “I don’t wanna grow up.”
“I know, honey,” she murmurs, putting her arm around my shoulders, and I see that she truly understands. After all, she was my age, once.
When we arrive at the store, she says, “You grab a cart, I’ll get some fruit.”
She always lets me get the cart because she remembers how, when I was younger, I used to run to get it, bouncing joyfully, quarter gripped in my hand. I would eagerly slide the coin in, push the funny “key,” pull out the cart, and carefully manoeuvre it back to my mother, beaming with childish pride. She would ruffle my hair and thank me. (She used to be tall enough to ruffle my hair. Or, I used to be short enough.)
But now getting the cart doesn’t seem as vitally important as it used to be, compared to the other things that now fill my life. This ritual is now as ordinary as the ritual of putting the ticket into the box in the subway… I guess I really am growing up, after all.
“Nah,” I reply, “you get the cart. I know how much you hate choosing the apples.” It’s true; she can’t stand endlessly turning the ripe Royal Galas around, looking for the miniscule soft spots distributed unevenly under the red skins.
She looks at me with surprise: she knows I feel even greater irritation when I pick the fruit. Anyway, she’s always the one who makes self-sacrifices to ensure my comfort.
I remember, with a clarity that comes with hindsight, the yearly trips to Ontario Place. I went down the kiddie slides over and over again, screaming with laughter each time. I didn’t really notice her then, not consciously. But in my memories, she stands off to the side, smiling at my joy, towels in hand, sun scorching her black hair, waiting uncomplainingly for me to finish. She’s always been that way--impossibly patient and caring--and she still is.
“But--” My mother’s voice breaks through my reveries, “but you always get the cart.” Her voice fades as she realizes how silly that sounds. I understand; she doesn’t want me to grow up, either. Neither of us does, but I’m doing it anyway, against my will.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling how inadequate an apology that is, for my sudden, awkward and infuriating adolescence.
She reaches a hand up to touch my cheek. “It’s just--” she murmurs softly, “you’ve changed so much.”
I look at her, this woman who has always offered me love I’m not sure I deserve but which I ground my life upon anyway. I tell her, with genuine appreciation,
“And you haven’t changed a bit.”
Toronto Star, July 2003, Winner in Starship Story Contest
My mother has her black sundress on; I’m wearing my red T-shirt. We stroll under sugar maples and the occasional willow, the wind tickling our necks, our footsteps falling silently on the sidewalk. I missed this trip last week, when I was at camp, and I nearly forgot about all the feelings and movements associated with it. Our shoulders sometimes brush against each other, our legs swing in rhythm. There are no words but it is a comfortable silence, and I suddenly become acutely aware of how much I missed it last week. And how much I will miss it when I leave home for university.
“Mommy,” I say, “I don’t wanna grow up.”
“I know, honey,” she murmurs, putting her arm around my shoulders, and I see that she truly understands. After all, she was my age, once.
When we arrive at the store, she says, “You grab a cart, I’ll get some fruit.”
She always lets me get the cart because she remembers how, when I was younger, I used to run to get it, bouncing joyfully, quarter gripped in my hand. I would eagerly slide the coin in, push the funny “key,” pull out the cart, and carefully manoeuvre it back to my mother, beaming with childish pride. She would ruffle my hair and thank me. (She used to be tall enough to ruffle my hair. Or, I used to be short enough.)
But now getting the cart doesn’t seem as vitally important as it used to be, compared to the other things that now fill my life. This ritual is now as ordinary as the ritual of putting the ticket into the box in the subway… I guess I really am growing up, after all.
“Nah,” I reply, “you get the cart. I know how much you hate choosing the apples.” It’s true; she can’t stand endlessly turning the ripe Royal Galas around, looking for the miniscule soft spots distributed unevenly under the red skins.
She looks at me with surprise: she knows I feel even greater irritation when I pick the fruit. Anyway, she’s always the one who makes self-sacrifices to ensure my comfort.
I remember, with a clarity that comes with hindsight, the yearly trips to Ontario Place. I went down the kiddie slides over and over again, screaming with laughter each time. I didn’t really notice her then, not consciously. But in my memories, she stands off to the side, smiling at my joy, towels in hand, sun scorching her black hair, waiting uncomplainingly for me to finish. She’s always been that way--impossibly patient and caring--and she still is.
“But--” My mother’s voice breaks through my reveries, “but you always get the cart.” Her voice fades as she realizes how silly that sounds. I understand; she doesn’t want me to grow up, either. Neither of us does, but I’m doing it anyway, against my will.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling how inadequate an apology that is, for my sudden, awkward and infuriating adolescence.
She reaches a hand up to touch my cheek. “It’s just--” she murmurs softly, “you’ve changed so much.”
I look at her, this woman who has always offered me love I’m not sure I deserve but which I ground my life upon anyway. I tell her, with genuine appreciation,
“And you haven’t changed a bit.”
Toronto Star, July 2003, Winner in Starship Story Contest
A New World
The warm, stuffy capsule had been cosy at first but after more than eight months in it he had discovered that “cosy” was not necessarily the best word for such a small, round space. At first he had been enthusiastic about the self-feeding device and the mostly restful lifestyle that would require little thought or action on his part, but as time went on the cramped quarters weighed on his patience. Naturally active, he yearned to finish this monotonous phase, and begin exploring.
Sinking deeply into the stretchy walls of his transportation, a feature that had been enjoyed by others for centuries before he existed, he remembered a time when the walls had seemed so much bigger. Why did he feel so cramped now? Kicking angrily at the wall, he felt it give slightly, with a wheeze of protest to accompany it. Then, remembering the good conduct expected of him by the creatures he was to meet, he lay back again and attempted to snooze.
He was on a mission, one that many others had taken before him. It was his duty to explore the new world when he finally escaped this container, and he was to make the best of life before his time there ended. He was prepared to learn to speak a new language and learn to think in a new way; he was willing to eat strange foods and walk strange terrains. The only part of the mission he hadn’t expected was the conditions to undergo before arriving at his destination.
The walls around him suddenly moved on their own. Could it be that the long-awaited time was here? Yes, he decided excitedly as the groans and movements of the capsule slowly shifted him towards the exit. The journey was finally over; he was going to experience a new world. With much trouble and a slight pain after staying still for so long, he worked his way outside and took his first breath of the strange atmosphere. He felt a sting of pain on his rear end but only yelped for a few moments before curiously eyeing his surroundings.
The species around him were far stranger than imagined. Gigantic compared to him, they were green, blue or white. When they leaned over him, he could see that their faces were coloured differently than their bodies. There was an elderly-looking couple hovering near the back, and two younger ones nearer. As they watched curiously, he attempted to communicate his utmost pleasure at being in their presence, and his hopes that the mission would be a success for both sides. However, his language seemed to disturb them, for there was great excitement; speaking in their exotic language, the creatures moved to and fro with fervour. A few minutes of this passed, as his feeding tubes were disconnected and he was passed from creature to creature. This was probably in his honour; they wanted to give him a chance to observe them.
Finally, he was placed back on the area where he had arrived. He relaxed; here in the open, he could watch his strange admirers from afar. Unfortunately, he found that he could hardly move, but that would change as the stiffness of the voyage wore off. The elderly couple hesitantly moved forward and his mode of transportation moved unexpectedly, picking him up with a surprisingly comforting gesture. Making noises that were, remarkably, not unlike the mysterious tongue of the creatures around him, it communicated to the advancing older ones: “Mom, Dad… I’d like you to meet your new grandson.”
Toronto Star, August 2001, Winner in Starship Story Contest
Sinking deeply into the stretchy walls of his transportation, a feature that had been enjoyed by others for centuries before he existed, he remembered a time when the walls had seemed so much bigger. Why did he feel so cramped now? Kicking angrily at the wall, he felt it give slightly, with a wheeze of protest to accompany it. Then, remembering the good conduct expected of him by the creatures he was to meet, he lay back again and attempted to snooze.
He was on a mission, one that many others had taken before him. It was his duty to explore the new world when he finally escaped this container, and he was to make the best of life before his time there ended. He was prepared to learn to speak a new language and learn to think in a new way; he was willing to eat strange foods and walk strange terrains. The only part of the mission he hadn’t expected was the conditions to undergo before arriving at his destination.
The walls around him suddenly moved on their own. Could it be that the long-awaited time was here? Yes, he decided excitedly as the groans and movements of the capsule slowly shifted him towards the exit. The journey was finally over; he was going to experience a new world. With much trouble and a slight pain after staying still for so long, he worked his way outside and took his first breath of the strange atmosphere. He felt a sting of pain on his rear end but only yelped for a few moments before curiously eyeing his surroundings.
The species around him were far stranger than imagined. Gigantic compared to him, they were green, blue or white. When they leaned over him, he could see that their faces were coloured differently than their bodies. There was an elderly-looking couple hovering near the back, and two younger ones nearer. As they watched curiously, he attempted to communicate his utmost pleasure at being in their presence, and his hopes that the mission would be a success for both sides. However, his language seemed to disturb them, for there was great excitement; speaking in their exotic language, the creatures moved to and fro with fervour. A few minutes of this passed, as his feeding tubes were disconnected and he was passed from creature to creature. This was probably in his honour; they wanted to give him a chance to observe them.
Finally, he was placed back on the area where he had arrived. He relaxed; here in the open, he could watch his strange admirers from afar. Unfortunately, he found that he could hardly move, but that would change as the stiffness of the voyage wore off. The elderly couple hesitantly moved forward and his mode of transportation moved unexpectedly, picking him up with a surprisingly comforting gesture. Making noises that were, remarkably, not unlike the mysterious tongue of the creatures around him, it communicated to the advancing older ones: “Mom, Dad… I’d like you to meet your new grandson.”
Toronto Star, August 2001, Winner in Starship Story Contest