the concert

the concert

Watching her was a dream come true. In her black velvet gown, she sat on the edge of the high stool, delicately brushed her hair aside with her beautiful fingers, and when she sang the first few notes of "What are you doing the rest of your life?", I cried.

Her voice was half a note lower than 30 years ago, but it didn't matter. For the mere price of $275 I got to see her and hear personally the greatest voice of them all: Barbra Streisand.

the first

The anomaly does not escape Kalan 's keen eye and it is the first thing he notices of this man who claims to be Father Richard.

The priest takes a pack of cigarette from his pocket, shakes it and a stick peeks out of the pack. He puts the stick between his lips and places the pack down on the coffee table in front of him. He takes the small book of matches from the table, the one that came from one of the restaurant near the church, The Queen's Plate. He sucks the cigarette and blows out the smoke.

"Sit down, Kalan. You know you're not going anywhere soon, so you might as well be..shall we say, friendly? At least?" Father Richard says as he motions Kalan to sit on the arm chair opposite him.

"Who do you work for, and who are you? What do you want from me?" Kalan hisses.

"The documents that Patty took at the church. They're not complete. I reckon you have the rest of it."

"What document are you fuckin' talking about?" Thoughts run through Kalan's mind, trying to figure out what the sonofabitch is trying to say.

The door opens, the person wearing the heavy coat enters and motions at Father Richard. He pulls from his right pants pocket a car key. And that confirms Kalan's first anomaly: the real Father Richard kept his car key in his left pocket because he was left handed. This impostor is definitely a right hander.

But what of the face? Plastic surgery?

Then it occurred to Kalan: Father Richard has a twin?

boarded up

Kalan ’s jaw drops in surprise and confusion at seeing Father Richard, or whoever it is that looks like the dead priest, as he hugs in greeting the figure in heavy coat. They stand in the middle of the yard talking, their boots buried knee-deep in the snow, the snowy woods in the background. He sees Father Richard glance towards him at the window, doffs his hat, smiles and waves. He completely forgets about the door behind him that has opened. He tries to lift the levers of the window when he hears a click and he feels the cold touch of the barrel of a gun against the back of his neck.

“No, you’re not going to do that, my boy.” It is the white-haired woman.

As Kalan turns around, he finds two huge men looming over him and quickly hold him by the arm. He tries to fend them off without success.

“What the f*** do you want from me? Who the f*** are you?”

“Just call me Mrs. Doubtfire, my boy.” Mrs. Doubtfire smiles and Kalan realizes that indeed the white-haired woman is the spitting image of the movie character.

Presently, Father Richard and the figure in heavy coat enter the room.

"Lose your gun, Patty," Father Richard says smiling. "The boy's harmless when he's unarmed."

"Stop calling me 'boy', you idiots!" and Kalan pushes Mrs. Doubtfire, or Patty , before the large hand of one of the men could grab him by his neck.

Father Richard waves the man off and motions for everyone to leave, as he settles on an armchair covered with a heavy tarp. He lights a cigarette and blows smoke circles towards where Kalan stands.

"Who the f*** are you?" Kalan asks.

"I'm Father Richard, Kalan. Don't you recognize me?"

Kalan bobs his head, in disgust. He knows this guy is a fake. He knows Father Richard. He has known him for as long as he can remember. He knows the lines on his face, and of course, he has, or had, a birthmark which this guy doesn't have.

Kalan turns towards the door in an attempt to leave. Father Richard holds his right arm up, palm facing Kalan.

Yup, Kalan thinks, he's a fake!

And as Kalan walks back towards the man who claims he is Father Richard, the incident at the boarded up brick house in Cabbagetown comes back to him. Now he is positive. Father Richard is dead and this man is stepping in to walk in the dead priest's shoes.

the storage room

mem'ries, old and sad
locked away perhaps for good
and not to be missed.

---

old knick-knacks galore
and the rest of my whole life
in a cold, dark room.

the bedroom

the bedroom

“Thank God for Fabreze!” she mutters while she sprays the bare mattress. The right side slightly sinks in, Jacques' spot during the last three years. Not a problem, she would just have to turn it over and the mattress will go back to its form even though it might take a few weeks. She turns on the electric fan and directed the air towards the mattress. She fetches from the linen closet the new bed pad she has bought and the new sheets that she wants to use. The new blue and white linen sheets that match the new curtains she has installed on the window. Already, she has thought of a name for the bedroom: the blue willow room. It's not her bedroom, it's THE blue willow room.

She lightly pats the top of the mattress with the palm of her hands to make sure it is dry when she hears a knock on the door. She clucks her tongue, annoyed at this intrusion. She walks out of the bedroom, er, the blue willow room, thinking where she would position the three-foot floor vase. She opens the door.

“Hiya!” It is Jacques.

“Oh, it’s you.” Jacques pushes the door and enters.

“Kinda hard to get rid of me when I’m just across the hall from you, n’est-ce pas?” he teases her.

“What do you want now?” she asks, not really hiding her annoyance.

“Have you got milk? I need some for my tea.”

comparisons

comparisons

My Sister and I

She's two minutes younger, and she is taller
She is fertile and I am barren
She smiles a lot, my face is a frown
Although when I want to I am the better clown.

She is plump, I am slimmer; she is rough, I am calmer
She creates with her hand, I am more the thinker
She likes her men younger and with full head of hair
I like mine older, and the balder, the sexier.

She speaks three languages, I speak seven
I've been around the world, she lives in Spain
I can cook up a storm, from soup to dessert
She can, too, literally, because she's a witch.

She's very friendly, and I am more reserved
She talks incessantly, whereas I sit and wait
She loves diamonds, gifts from her exes
I make do with pearls, real ones and fakes.

She spends her money like it's going out of style
I work my ass off and must until I die
But we love each other for we are sisters
And I'll give her my money if she'll let me spend hers.

new beginnings

new beginnings

all decorations have been removed and stored
the christmas tree's folded and boxed
and he gives me the news that he's decided to move
ah, how better to start the new year and my mood.