—Dusk, somewhere in Vancouver
I can’t remember what a car sounds like. I can remember a rumble, a growl, but I can’t piece all of the noises together to make a cohesive sound. I hear a muted roar. Like the sound of the ocean. That’s all I hear these days. I never realized how much I appreciated the sounds of a living city. I used to live right near a hospital and every night the whooping sound of ambulances filled my small apartment, like a thousand burning doves. I drove a shitty Honda in constant need of oil. It always failed to start at the most inconvenient times. I was rarely on time for work.
I’ve been sleeping behind the counter of a Dairy Queen. The floors are still sticky, as if customers had just been waltzing through, ready for a dip cone. It’s like the floor’s worn brick surface has forgotten what its purpose was and wishes to hold the moment a trifle longer.
I found a frozen brick of hamburgers in the back freezer. I made a fire in the back alley with some newspapers I’d found stashed behind the cash register. Fried a couple on the back of a metal sheet. I took long, slow bites, savoring the experience. Grease dribbled down my chin. I used to be a fast eater. Now I treasure each morsel. I’ve started referring to my meals as ‘communions.’ It seems fitting. I’m never more thankful than when I’m sitting down to eat. Jesus often dined with his disciples and taught lessons with food. If you have a meal waiting for you when you put down this journal, reader, be especially thankful. I know I would be.
by Cail Judy
August 2008
Photo from Private Islands
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