The Pen that Pierced My Heart

Yesterday, my day started out fabulous.

Until it wasn’t.

A medical appointment that was booked months ago, and confirmed two business days in advance, was supposed to happen.

But it didn’t.

 

For whatever reason, the administrative staff at said medical facility had called all other persons to reschedule due to the doctor being on vacation. Except me. The little box with my name in it on their schedule calendar was covered by another little box saying the doctor was taking vacation. They didn’t see it, so I didn’t get a call.

 

An inconvenience to be sure. But I was about to let it ruin my day. Instead, I decided that some retail therapy was in order.

Mindful of my ability to spend large quantities of money that I would soon regret, I opted for the dollar store (where everything isn’t a dollar anymore).

 

As soon as I walked in, I was greeted with the newest displays of back-to-school items. All the pens, pencils, notebooks, journals, and office items that makes my heart go pitty-pat.

 

I found gel pens that wrote with coloured ink. I found black ink pens, with cushions for comfort when writing, in all the soft colours I adore. There were felt-tipped markers in bold colours that I like using when I need to edit documents. Erasable pens too, which are great for writing in my journal and notebooks (because sometimes my brain is faster than my hand and I tend to make mistakes). Using pen and paper when writing does something for me. I must purposefully slow down my thoughts to make the words on paper somewhat coherent.

 

The composition books further down the aisle were displayed in an array of colours and patterns that made it difficult to choose. I found journals with contemporary quotes of encouragement, praise, and wisdom. There were notebooks of differing shapes and sizes, both coil-bound and stitched. There is something to be said about a blank journal or notebook, eagerly waiting for a story or memory to be painted upon the lines and pages in ink.

 

I am a sucker for a beautiful blank notebook or journal. Especially if the page edges have been gilded or deckled. Instantly, my mind wanders to the story that I could put in between its lines, maybe a romantic tale or something dark and full of doom and gloom. I have imagined myself an author, a write, spending countless days in a sun-filled room, at a desk, tales pouring from my imagination through my fingertips. Tasteful sketches of flowers, leaves, and insects adorn the corners of pages throughout marking the moments where I mindlessly doodled while I let my mind work through the next section of the story. A steaming mug of tea steeps nearby, and the dog snores softly on the rug near my chair. This is where the magic happens, where it all takes place. Kingdoms are built, and chance encounter romances become love stories for the ages. I pause thoughtfully, considering where all the copies of my books are – homes of gentle readers, in the laps of people sitting under the trees in a park, in the lunch or laptop bags of working folks, or the to-be-read stacks of the voracious readers among us. I wonder how many of those who read my books are fully able to immerse themselves in the story, like I often do when I am reading a thriller, a mystery, or a steamy romance novel? Do others find that they are able to completely escape their reality and find themselves surrounded by the world I have created for them with my words? Are the younger readers able to see themselves as the hero/heroine of the tale, regardless of their sexual identity? Does it help those who have little imagine a life filled with abundance and excess?

 

Those are the kind of stories I wish to write.

 

And so, I take the brand-new pen, and the new notebook, and I put the pen to paper.

 

And I write.

I Love You

 If you have ever had a tattoo done, or know someone who has, you probably know that most tattoos are a symbolism of someone or something. They serve as reminders of a lost love, or loved one, a pet, a favourite movie or musician, or of a time when the tattooed person had a significant life event.

The other day, a friend posted on their social media asking others to show their tattoos, their favourites in particular. Of course, I posted the tattoo I have of my mother's printed words to my dad.

From about the age of 4 or 5, until I was nearly twenty years old, I was blessed to have my dad in my life. I never referred to him as a step-parent, as he taught me, because steps are something you walk on - and you don't walk on people. He taught me that I could love more than one person as a father figure because each man - my dad and my father - brought different perspectives and teachings into my life. He was not the kind of man to teach me to have contempt for the man who fathered me, and had done so much good for my family. 

When he died, he left me heart broken. I did not know how to live in a world without him. My grief was raw, deep and excruciating. Those first years following his death were some of the worst years of my life. After his funeral, I packed away the package from the funeral home that contained the cards from any floral tributes, remaining obituary cards, and other cards we had received along with the book - the register that people sign to let the family know they attended the funeral. 

In the medium manila envelope containing all the cards and envelopes there was one that caught my eye. The enveloped was addressed to 'Pop'. I recognized my mother's handwriting. Even as a youth, I realized that she too was heart broken, having lost the love of her life. To protect whatever private message that might have been shared, I never opened the envelope, tucking it away with the others.

Over the years, I have opened that box of memories, re-reading the messages from family and friends, reminding me of how loved my dad was. His quiet way had touched so many people. And his death at the early age of 55, really resonated with a lot of people.

When my mother passed away 11 years later, I was given a similar box and package from the funeral home, also containing the manila envelope and her book of signatures and well wishes. Once I was home, I placed her package on top of dad's, together in the same storage tote in my closet. I wasn't as heart broken when my mother's death made me an orphan at the age of thirty; I was just lost. My grounding compass, my parents, were no longer there to guide me. 

Some 20 years later, I was preparing to move to a new home, and had started the obligatory purge of things no longer needed from the backs of closets. Items that I no longer had any memory of why I had saved them in the first place made their was to the dumpster area of my apartment building. I wanted to move into my new home with less attachments to a past that no longer served me or my family, so I threw things into the trash without a second thought.

Until I got to the tote containing those funeral home packages. I opened them, reread all those messages of well wishes from people who are now just names on a page with vague memories associated to them. Until I got to the white envelope addressed to Pop. I shared with my children the story of how he became my dad, and how loved he made me feel despite all the trauma I lived with as a child at the hands of my mother. I cried as I told my family how much I still miss him. 

And then, thirty-one years after his death, I opened the envelope for the first time.

The card inside may have had some flowers on it, it may have had a pre-printed poem. I really don't know. What I do remember is the printed words inside it, written all those years ago by my mother. 

" Kunoluk:wa "

And underneath:

" Kaluynti "

In the language our ancestors spoke she had written, " I love you " and had signed it with her name given to her in the longhouse - her real name. Not the government name she was burdened with, but the name that spoke to who she was as a person. My memory of its meaning is hazy, but it means something to do with how when corn was harvested and the stalks were grouped together, in a standing cone shape, to allow the cobs to dry, but could withstand the wind and not be knocked down.

You see, my dad was a teacher, part of the effort to revitalize the Onyota:ka language as it was determined in the 1980's to be a language in danger of being lost. My mom, had learned this language from her parents as that is what was spoken at home while she was growing up. Although she never disclosed anything to me personally, I do know that my mother attended Mt. Elgin Industrial School (an Indian residential school) and during those years, lost her language. Pop was helping her to relearn to speak - to give her her voice back. 

Many nights, the two of them would sit at the dining room table over coffee, and talk. About anything and everything. I would fall asleep in the living room to the sound of dad's voice, repeating phrases over and over again to her, with her whispering them back. I remember when they first started doing this how scared she was and me wondering why she would be afraid. But I was too young to ask the right questions, and she would never tell me about her experiences.

Those two words, printed inside a card, reminded me of the amazing love that my parents shared - one I was witness to. Love that could overcome traumatic experiences, ruined innocence, and the attempt at genocide cloaked in the word 'assimilation'. Love that knew no bounds; not time or space or distance. Love that couldn't be clouded by repressed memories, scars, or addictions. Love that taught me how to treat people we care for, and that we all have responsibilities to one another.