Nothing belongs to me but this

I have to hug and kiss my  great-aunt when I see her. This demand is furiously whispered to me as we climb out of the car and walk towards her front door. 

I experience the textural nightmare of her velvet coat with shifting bird-like bones beneath; the overwhelming chemical cloud of baby powder and artificial roses. I touch my face towards her too dry cheek. I accept her too damp kiss.

I am seven and yet again learning that what I want (need) (ask for) doesn’t matter when held up against “being polite”. 

Surely, she doesn’t like this as much as I don’t like this. I have spent 3 hours locked in a Honda Civic with a toddler brother that gets car sick. My mother believes air conditioning is unhealthy and doesn’t want the windows open because her hair will get mussed. I am helplessly sticky the way small children are when it’s the middle of July.

She is 62 and I wonder if no one gets a choice.

We are 14 years old, in our high school bathroom when we are supposed to be in math. 

My best friend starts crying. I watch the slow-motion horror of her beautiful, lovely face crumpling in despite her best efforts. She keeps apologizing through hitches in her breath. She keeps dragging her sleeves across her eyes, the rough blue polyester uniform sweater wrecking havoc on the mascara her mom doesn’t know she owns.

My other friends immediately form a protective cocoon around her. A hive mind that coalesces into a single unit whispering “it’s ok” “he’s a dick” “you’re ok”. I watch as limbs form a net with her in the center and tighten. 

I join the group because I know that’s what I’m expected to do. I have watched enough afterschool TV specials.

I rub her back and feel the tremors as she tries to hold in her sobs. I catalogue GAP perfume and cafeteria french fries in the warm centre of our tangled selves. Someone’s hair brushes against the back of my hands – all tickly light, like spiders dancing. 

I do not enjoy this but I love her and if our bodies shielding hers is what she needs then who am I to say “no”? 

This young man, sitting so close, the solid press of him against my side here in this university town bar, tells me about the lottery for hunting tags in British Columbia.

I am fascinated. His lived life is so different than mine and I want to know more. I am ravenous for more. 

I am 21 years old and read Hemmingway’s “Big Two-Hearted River” in a too cramped, too slushy, too humid subway car in February. All I’ve ever known has been spalling concrete and mechanical noise. The thought of walking through quiet, open forest is dizzying. 

There is an enchanting gravity in his words and I fall in.  

Please tell me more. Please tell me about how your dad first brought you out when you were 8 and you’ve gone every year until you left for school. Please tell me about sitting in the blind for hours and how you watched the leaves. Please tell me how to properly dress a deer – all the steps, leave nothing out. Please more. More. I need to know more. Pour all of your stories out and into me; I have never wanted anything as much as this and now. 

He tilts his head down and kisses me in response. It is a soft but sure pressure that smells of Irish Spring soap and tastes of Kokanee beer. His hands curve away from his glass and move to curve against my waist. I feel the tension running through him and am surprised and then disappointed that I am surprised. 

This is not what I want right now but it’s ok. I don’t mind. This is interesting too, I guess. Less interesting than stories about how large moose are but learning what makes this young man lose control is a decent enough second place.

Maybe, if I drag my hands hot against his neck and lick open the seam of his mouth. Maybe, if I slide my thighs wide and press up into his hard need. Maybe, if I do this really well, I’ll get more stories sooner rather than later. Maybe this will become a story too.

My 11 month old baby is sick and time has lost all meaning. 

I have been standing in this dimly lit nursery at 1:13am for 2 hours? 5 days? Ten thousand years? I don’t know anymore.

My world has narrowed to this too warm weight flailing in my arms – refusing to be held and demanding to be cradled. He presses his damp face against my shoulder. His soft fuzzy head smelling blandly sweet and slightly sweaty. He pulls back suddenly, small fist pulling sharply at my hair, fussily and quietly whining. He coughs wetly, directly into my face, before settling back down. 

And that repeats and repeats and repeats. 

This is a viral infection and must run its course. All I can do is provide comfort. What comforts him is my arms, my shoulders, my hair, my face, my half-remembered lullabies hummed in his ear.  

And that repeats and repeats and repeats. 

I stand in this dimly lit nursery and silently weep - my tears mixing with the grit from my too tired eyes. 

I learn about consent, autism, and asexuality at around the same time my doctor starts giving me a heads up about perimenopause. I read the definition of “spectrum” and ruminate on it for weeks. I test the weight of the words against the pull in my soul and stand uncertain in the clarification.

My body is my own. A gift for me alone. 

I sit, listening to my heart beat, and marvel at the waves of rage, disappointment, grief, and joy.