Even Time gets the hiccups. In that moment, when the
bosom of the world gasps to regain its breath, I hear the voices of the
departed flood over my thoughts like a heteroglossic waterfall. My best friend
Krizzle, with eyes smiling: keep those boys in line, Stewie! Grandpa Stewart,
smoking his handmade pipe in his tartan chair: you're okay kid. Grandma
Stewart, bent over a bed of poppies, singing "Loch Lomond" in her
lilting voice: you take the high road. Aunt Kari reaching her hand out, helping
me climb the jagged mossy rock on top of Ring Mountain at sunset: just a bit
further! Grandpa Johnson dressed in his crisp grey business suit, smelling of
pomade and aftershave, in his deadpan voice with a dramatic flourish: your
chariot awaits you, princess. Grandma Baba leaning over my shoulder, a paroxysm
of fermented perfume and cosmetics: you can do better than that! And my dad,
wearing his orange oil-stained workshirt, smelling of freshly cut grass and gasoline,
watching me from the ground as I climb up the old oak tree to grab the frisbee
stuck in the topmost branch: that's my girl! And then my foot slips on a patch
of moss, and I fall. I am in the air time of a smooth rock skipping across
mirror still water. Then we all catch our breath together, and plunge, and
emerge. I am masochistic enough to look around the room and make sure I am
alone. Angels are out there.
