I wrote a precursor to this article (on social media, because that’s where we have all resided. Except you, and you, of course! I think you mentioned once or a thousand times that you’ve never been on social media, oh and of course Reddit/Twitch/X_social_gaming_platform/the comment section somewhere doesn’t count!)
That precursor generated interest that I hadn’t expected. I was hoping to craft something funny and relatable. Instead, it seems that I shared a window into a certain aspect of my broken and nauseating inner world. In my (perhaps flawed) remembrance, there were responses like:
“Is this real?”
I live in the land of sociable roses.
In my birth country, the roses hide behind low fences, hug the gravelly walls of postwar stucco homes, or huddle in back gardens away from prying eyes. The wild roses, once held so dear, are overlooked or even cut away. The city planners plant hardy shrubby roses on verges and boulevards, but the bushes are nearly inaccessible, placed as they are between freeways and parking lots. I would challenge anyone in Edmonton, the city of my youth, to name from memory the variety or even the colour of those public roses*.
I know that you will someday ask how Grandma died. You have been told that she is dead, and that is enough for a little child to know. Enough so that you understand that this particular branchlet of the family tree is dormant. Or maybe broken. At first, I will tell you that she was very, very sick. I will say she was in and out of the hospital, and finally, she died.
There’s a character in one of your favourite films that reminds me of my mother. Every time I see that woman, with her eccentricity and irreverence, I…
Project your assumptions here. I can handle it; I am strong.