Anybody order a triple, non fat, whipped, latté?
Have you ever taken the time to wonder what people will say at your funeral?
It’s funny how that question just popped right into my head this afternoon, while I was reading in a coffee shop.
I figured someone will surely say that coffee killed me, or that if someone was looking for me in heaven, I’d probably be hanging out at the local java joint up there - if they let me in of course.
Then I wondered who would be at my funeral - my folks are old, maybe they won’t be around anymore by the time I croak. The woman I share my life with…of course I hope she would show up. What about all those friends, who aren’t really “close” friends ? How about my exes ? Or those cousins that I don’t really know…
Maybe I’ll include in my will that I’d like to have an on-hand barista at my funeral; you know, if you’re nice enough to come to see dead-me, I think it would be nice to serve you a good latté or double espresso.
I can just imagine the barista whispering out the orders and one of my guests getting all fussy because they didn’t add whip cream to their moka latté.
When I was younger, I saw 20-somethings sitting at coffee shops and thought they must be so happy now that they’re older and have their lives together. Now I’m the 20-something and I see that life doesn’t slow down and fall into place just because you’re old enough. Being older just means that you have to make time to stop and enjoy that coffee.
Meteghan My Dear
Seven years ago I was living in a fishing village on the south east coast of Nova Scotia. I had decided to move there after accepting a job at a local university. I was my first “real” job in my field of work.
I had a house, open concept, with a loft style bedroom on a second floor, high ceilings, and windows from top to bottom looking out into the ocean. During crab season, I would get up in the morning to watch the fishing boats head out to sea.
It was amazing.
But I was alone.
I spent nights and days just thinking of how I was going to get back home.
Now I live in a condo in downtown Montreal. My view in the morning is the Hispanic kids that live in the building in the back of mine or the hooker asking me if I want some while I’m taking my dog out for her morning walk.
I’m older today, probably a bit brighter I like to think. And when I think of what life would have been had I decided to stay in that small rural community, it makes me smile.
I probably would have bought my own house by now. Something old, with a big yard or an ocean front. I’d probably have two dogs. One named Halifax and the other one Poppy.
I’d probably still host my radio show and go for ice cream on warm summer nights.
I’d probably still get drunk on dark winter nights and swear at the moon while standing outside in my underwear and winter boots.
It would be different, I’d be different for sure. I don’t think I’d mind that.
Sushis & Beer, Life & Death
I watched a movie last night while I was home alone, The Beginners. I wasn’t looking for something very deep or action-packed because honestly, my brain was dead last night and I was just happy to have decided to stay in with sushis and beer.
I’m usually not a very emotional person - be that a fault or a fun fact about myself, I’ve never been very keen on showing my emotions. Very rarely have some close friends (and no longer friends), seen me express openly how I “feel”. Thank God no one saw me yesterday sobbing like an idiot.
Maybe it was because I was tired.
Maybe it was because I had to much time to think.
One thing for sure, the damn movie didn’t help.
Through out the movie, the main character’s father, played by the illustrious Christopher Plummer, is living his finals moments. One minute he’s healthy, the next day he’s fragile and then pouff…he’s dead.
Yeah, that’s life right ? You live, you love and then you die. Right, got that.
But the fact that I have older parents, the fact that my mother is afflicted by Alzheimer’s and that one day or another it’s just going to hit the family like a ton of bricks, just freaks the shit out of me.
My grand-mother also had Alzheimer’s and although I was only 14 when she passed, I saw her going from normal to this fragile unrecognizable woman. And now I know that’s going to happen to my mother. And sometimes, I’m afraid that might happen to me too. I mean you can’t really know how that fucking gene works, but maybe it’s in me.
What I know is that my father is a Saint. My mother isn’t always grateful for everything he does for her - and that one day…yeah. That’s it. Pouff.
Maybe I got some wasabi in my eye, yeah, that’s it.
Lunettes et rousses.
Nous étions réunis autour d’une pinte de rousse dans un pub branché du Plateau où des têtes d’autruches se retrouvent sur les murs - là, dans ce même pub où je flânais quand j’étais un célibataire de passage à Montréal - nous voilà en train de discuter tout bonnement, on se rattrape depuis notre dernière conversation. Mon année a été chiante, la tienne un peu mieux. On se comprends, c’est ça l’important. Tu me demande pourquoi je porte mes lunettes sur ma tête - “c’est nouveau ça”, tu me demande. “Oui, ça pogne avec les jeunes filles et les femmes qui aiment les intellos”, je te réponds. “T’es con”, tu me relance avec un sourire. La complicité est là.
Une décennie nous sépare de l’époque où tu n’étais que “la rousse” qui me servait un latté dans mon café, ma deuxième maison quoi, sur un coin de rue trifluvien. Tu es une femme aujourd’hui, je suis un homme. On connait nos histoires, nos déboires, nos conneries. On se connait mieux aujourd’hui que dans l’temps.
"T’es un artiste, mais tu le sais pas", me dis-tu en criant dans oreille. "Artiste de quoi ?", je ne fais rien, je ne peins pas, je n’écris pas, je ne chante pas, je ne photographie plus rien, je suis artiste de quoi au juste ? "T’a pas trouvé encore, tu trouveras…", tu me réponds avec tes grands yeux ouverts qui m’ont toujours charmés. Ton homme est chanceux de voir tes yeux à tous les jours me suis-je dis.
Comment je fais pour découvrir l’artiste en moi alors ?
Tu n’es pas la première à me le dire. Mais j’ai pas plus de réponses, j’ai pas plus de pistes.
J’ai mes lunettes sur ma tête par contre. Ça me donne un look, c’est un début.