Jamieson Wolf's Blog, page 60

The Light of Glass – A Poem

I’m waling in a landscape

filled with glass. It glitters

like diamonds on the ground,

the sparkle from it like wishes

given form. They are blinding,

but still I look. While I gaze

into the light, I see a land

that I know well, see

a terrain that I’ve travelled.

It moves and shifts, the ground

never staying still for long,

the sky seeming to rush down

upon it like a turbulent sea.

“Don’t look too long upon that, now.”

A voice says. I look up and see a man,

his hair matted and dulled with soot,

smiling at me. He motions to the

glass upon the ground that holds

the familiar path, the one I know.

“It’s best not to dwell on where you’ve been. Only where you’re going.”

I look at him and try to

detect some sort of malice but

there is only kindness coming

from him. I motion towards the glass shards,

containing the ground that will not

remain in the same place.

It is a terrain that I know well.

“How do you know what is inside the light?”

He looks at me, his green eyes flashing

like two emeralds and holds his arms wide.

“I can tell from the way you are standing. You do not look like a happy man. Looking upon the light should fill you with joy, not despair.”

I walk closer to him and smell peppermint

and the scent of wild oranges.

“I’ve tried, I continue to try. But I trip, I fall, I get up again. I know the ground so well.”

“Ah!” He says. “But you get back up again.”

“Yes, so?”

He bends and picks up

a handful of the diamond sand.

“That is your own light shining through. Your will is strong. Leave this place now. It is for the lost. You belong somewhere else.”

I find myself nodding in agreement,

wondering how he could see

inside of me so deeply.

“Who are you?”

He let out a laugh that sounded

like joy released and smiled at me.

“Does it matter? Do not dwell on what has been and what was. You are not the man you were. Focus instead on your own light and moving forward.”

The light from the glass

began to increase so that

it was brighter than the sun.

“It’s so beautiful.”

He laughed again and motioned at me.

“That is not the light from the glass. That is the light coming from inside of you.”

I looked down at myself and saw

that there were several points

along my body that were

aflame with light. That light

poured out of me and shone

brighter than the sun.

I let the glass shards fall

with a tinkle and placed my hand

over the light coming form where

my heart was. It was warm and there

was a vibration coming from it

that was like its own music.

The light grew brighter still

until it was all I could see.

“Walk forward and keep walking. Shine bright and keep shining. That is all there is to it.”

Then there was only whiteness and

the gorgeous hum of light

that came from within me.

The Wild Word – A Poem

He was reading

one of my

poems, flipping casually

through the book.

“Do you ever write this out in linear form? Like a short story?”

I shook my

head at him.

“No. This wanted to come out as a poem.”

“Well then it certainly has a flow to it.”

“Yes, it does.”

He looked down

at the book

again, somewhat confused.

“I’ve never seen poetry with dialogue. Yours don’t even rhyme.”

“Nope. It’s how they want to come out.”

“You let the poem tell you how to write? You’re the writer. Aren’t you in control of your own words?”

I thought of

that statement. How

many times had

I sat down

in front of

my computer and

went to write

one thing, yet

something else came

out instead? How

many times have

I plotted a

story, only to

have the characters

do what they

wanted to do

anyways? I looked

back at him.

“Well, it’s kind of like this.”

I said softly.

“I want you to picture it with me.”

“Okay.”

He said. I

picked up another

copy of my

book and opened

it. Words began

to slide out

of the book,

flowing from the

page like water.

“Inside of every writer, there is a body of water. If you can swim in it, you’ll see the most amazing things…”

Water began to

rise around us,

but the water

was black like

the ink from

the page. He

watched, his eyes

full of shock.

Soon, we were

floating in it,

held by its

warm comforting embrace.

“You’ll see beasts of every kind of some defying description.”

Something flew overhead

and we could

see its shadow

slide along the

water. Other animals

materialized when a

bank of land

rose out of

the black water.

There were some

beasts that I

could name, others

had no name

of any kind

as they existed

only within me.

depths and there

There were people

on the bank

of land and

we watched as

trees began to

grow to offer

them shade from

a glaring sun

made of words.

“You’ll meet the most amazing characters, all of them so real, even more so as you come to know them.”

We watched the

people wave to

us as if

welcoming us home.

“You’ll witness all the ups and downs of these people.”

One of the

people that was

on the bank

of land fell

as if hurt,

a few of the

others ran to

help. Blood began

to drip from

the person, it

looked like a

man, and into

the cool water,

staining it red.

Another person, a

woman this time,

went to the

one that had

fallen and pressed

her hands to

the person’s chest.

We watched light

flow from one

to the other

until light and

stars changed the

blood that ran

through the water

into something beautiful.

“My job is to help them know what their story is. My job as a writer is to tell the story the way it wants to be told. It’s really that simple and that complex.”

When I closed

the book, the

water began to

slide back into

the ground, the

people began to

fade, letters in

the water began

to slip back

into my book.

“Every writer has access to their own well of water. If you fight the story, the well will dry up. All you have to do is have faith in yourself.”

I pointed down

at the ground.

A few letters

from my book

remained there. The

letters spelled only

one simple word:

BELIEVE.

He looked at

me with new

respect in his

eyes and said:

“How much for a copy of one of your books?”

Prose in the Park!

I’m thrilled to announce that I’ve been invited to take part in Prose in the Park. They are having a poetry evening on June 3rd from 6:30pm to 10pm and I’m so honoured to be included.

Prose in the Park is a literary festival like no other. It features writers of all kinds from all over Ottawa.

If you’re in Ottawa, you should totally check it out! It’s free to the public! Here’s what you need to know:

PROSE IN THE PARK LITERARY FESTIVAL

JUNE 4, 2016 IN THE PARKDALE PARK

WITH A POETIC PRELUDE ON JUNE 3 AT ORIGIN STUDIO, 57 LYNDALE AVENUE

AMAZING! 68 panelists, moderators and poets are now on the Prose in the Park Literary Festival program and 110 authors and publishers participating in the PiP book fair.

How cool is that?

I’ll be reading my poems along with thirteen other poets on June 3rd:

http://www.proseinthepark.com/#!2016-programme/c1km9

It’ll be the first time I’ve read some of my poems in public so this is quite an event for me.

On June 4th, I’ll be taking part in the book fair and selling my books! I’ll have copies of Talking to the Sky, Walking on the Earth and my newest poetry collection, Dancing with the Flame.

The best part? It’s all free! So come out and see me and other talented authors read their work and come out to see us at the book fair!

So excited and I can’t wait to see you all there!

The Written Girl – A Poem

I stare at

a blank page

and wait for

it to speak

to me. It

remains quiet for

a moment, waiting

for me to

put my fingers

on the keys.

When I do,

the white cloud

in front of

me begins to

ripple. I watch

as words form

on the page

and those words

begin to make

a shape, that

of a young

girl. She gazes

out at me,

her skin made

from words that

I have yet

to write. Her

eyes look at

me pleadingly and

she opens her

mouth. I do

not expect to

hear her voice.

“Why haven’t you written my story yet?”

She says. Her

voice is a

soft lilt, like

music or the

song of birds

in flight.

“I don’t know who you are.”

I tell her.

None of my

current works in

progress feature a

young girl. I

have a few

on the go

and there isn’t

a girl in

any of them.

“That’s because you haven’t written my story yet. You have to give me a voice if I’m to live.”

I shake my

head, trying to

find the words.

“You aren’t real. You’ll just be something I made up.”

She laughs and

I hear the

sound of bells

ringing. She looks

at me sternly.

“Doesn’t every writer put some of themselves into the characters they create? Don’t they say that to know a writer, you have to read what they’ve written?”

I’m nodding at

my computer screen.

I don’t expect

her to react,

thinking that this

is all in

my head. She

puts her hands

on her hips

and tosses her

hair. I look

closely and read

the words that

make up her

hair. I see

the words Queen,

magic, betrayed, lightning,

Lavender Man, familiar,

the last Witch.

I wonder if

her hair reflects

her story. Her

dark eyes look

into mine, beseechingly.

“Can you please tell my story? I’ve been waiting ever so long.”

I nod and

then say one word:

“Soon.”

She sighs with

contentment and I

watch as the

words and letters

that make up

her body begin

to drift across

the page, unwriting

her. She looked

at me again.

“Don’t forget. Don’t forget me, okay?”

“I won’t. I promise.”

I tell her.

She gives me

one final smile

and then the

final letters that

make up her

mouth and eyes

slip away across

the page until

it is blank

once more.

The Wild Unknown Animal Spirit Deck

So let’s talk about The Wild Unknown Animal Spirit Deck.

I generally shy away from oracle or animal spirit decks. I prefer the structure of the Tarot and the fact that Tarot cards act like as a window into what we need to know about ourselves or a particular situation.

I’ve never been sure how to read oracle decks, though. I wasn’t sure what they were trying to tell me, regardless of the fancy book that comes with the cards. You’d ask about a situation or something you’re thinking about and get something garbled or totally off the mark. I’m speaking from my own experience with them.

So when Wild Unknown announced they were doing an Animal Spirit Deck, I was intrigued but hesitant. I wondered what it would be like. However, if it was anything like The Wild Unknown Tarot, I knew I would connect with it.

I read pretty much exclusively with The Wild Unknown Tarot and Kim Krans had mentioned that The Wild Unknown Spirit Deck could be used with the Wile Unknown Tarot. So I got it.

My first impressions: the deck is beautiful and stunningly illustrated. However, I was unsure of what the deck was trying to show me at first. I had to study the cards for a while to realise that, whereas the Tarot is dealing with the possible answer to a question, the Animal Spirit Deck is showing us ourselves at our unconscious level. It delves deep into who we are and what we can do.

It has structure with the suits being the five elements (Air, Earth, Fire, Water and Spirit/Ether) but more than that, it doesn’t just answer the typical Animal Spirit Deck question of “What is my animal spirit?” Krans recognizes that we can be any spirit at any given time, depending on the situation.

I had to relearn how to ask a question. Instead of “What do I focus on today?” or “What is the next step on my path?”, I had to learn to ask more personal questions such as “What part of myself have I forgotten?” or “What part of myself do I need to embrace?” Oddly enough, this took the longest to adapt to.

I’m still learning the cards individually, but on the whole, this is a gorgeous deck that really resonates with me. I can’t wait to delve further into it!

The Path to Self – A Poem

My life is marked

by a series of memories.

If I look behind me,

I can see them forming

the path that I am on.

The memories are shaped

like paving stones or

Tarot cards, each of them

a doorway or window

into that moment,

into that memory.

As I walk along my path,

I can look back and

see where I was last year,

two years ago or three.

When I stop to touch

the memory, it rises up

in front of me, as if

it was a small television

when in reality

it is my memory I am

viewing. This one is from

three years ago, when I

was at the darkest point

in my life. I was sitting

outside on a bench and

the sun was warm on

my face. Inside of me,

however, there was only

torment. I sat on the bench

with a bottle of pills and a

bottle of water beside me.

The urge to take all of

the pills was overwhelming.

It had been a long few weeks.

May had been my dark month.

After my diagnosis, I thought

I had been doing well, that I

was fine. I wasn’t. What was

a disease on top of a disability?

I could handle this, I could do this.

I couldn’t. Not on my own.

I had cut everyone out of

my life. I thought it was

better that way. Even though

I knew it was foolishness, I

didn’t want to infect anyone

else with my sadness. I wore it

like a shroud of cloak.

The darkness was in every

word I spoke, every action

I did. I had started wearing it

like an armor, now it would

be my downfall. I called

my boyfriend at the time

and told him what I wanted

to do. I was looking for some

kind of comfort, some kind of

caring. What he said was:

“So do it.”

I hung up on him and grabbed

the bottle of pills, twisted

off the cap, poured the white

tablets into the palm of my hand,

as if someone else was guiding

my actions. I remember letting

out an anguished sound,

not a yell, more like something

primal that no classification.

I forced my hand to put

the pills back in the bottle,

put them down and picked

up my phone again.

I called my mom.

I told her what I wanted

to do, what urges I was

feeling. She said the words

that saved me:

“I didn’t raise a quitter. Don’t you quit on me.”

I remember sitting outside

on that bench, the sun still

warm upon my face,

letting my sadness leak

out of me in a flood of tears.

There was a moment that

I could barely speak but

my mom spoke to me,

told me how strong I was,

how brave I was, how I

was better than this, that

I could do anything I

put my mind to.

Slowly, I calmed my breathing,

I calmed my heart.

I told my mother:

I love you.

She told me the same.

I put the bottle of pills

back into my pocket

and told myself that

I would live, despite how much

it hurt me to do so,

that I would thrive,

despite the fact that

I didn’t think that I

had that much to live for.

Back on my path of self,

I stop watching. I don’t

need to see anymore,

I know what came after.

I place the memory back

into the path, in the exact same spot.

I often think of throwing

that stone into the water

that runs along side the path,

its shallow waves a constant

music. I think of burying it

within the grass, never to be

seen again. But I don’t.

This stone is a reminder

of what it was like at my lowest

point and it is a reminder

of how far I’ve come.

I pat the stone so that it

settles into the grass,

remembering who I was

and give it one last glance

before moving forward

into who I am.

Man in the Mirror – A Poem

Three year ago,

I met the

person that lived

inside of me.

For months, he

had been plaguing

me with falls

down stairs, with

the loss of

eyesight and speech

and a host

of other problems.

It was when

I lost the

ability to speak

that I was

made to go

to the doctors.

All throughout the

testing, he had

remained quiet. For

months, he had

remained quiet, but

I could sense

him growing stronger

within me. An

unnameable beast that

resided within my

skin. I sat

in a room

with the doctor

and he had

looked at me,

not with pity

but with apology.

I knew what

was coming would

not be easy.

The invisible beast

grew restless inside

of me. The

doctor sighed and

then he spoke:

“There’s no easy way to say this. I’m afraid it’s M. S.”

My mother hung

her head as

if she had

been shot, but

I sat there,

numb and afraid

to move. The doctor

went on to

talk about treatments,

all the while,

the twin inside

of me was

laughing. For a

moment, I thought

my life was

over, that life

as I knew

it had stopped.

We stood and

thanked the doctor

for his help

and I went

to the washroom

to through some

cold water on

my face. I

looked at myself

in the mirror.

I didn’t look

different, but I

felt different. It

was as if

something had changed

within me. I

could hear him

laughing inside of

me. I gave

him a stern

look, knowing that

I was looking

right inside myself.

“I know your name now, Max Shadow. I know what you are.”

I heard more

laughter and a

voice said quietly:

“So? What are you going to do about it?”

I let steel

run through my

spine and looked

even harder at

myself, knowing that

he could hear

my every word.

“I’m going to fight you and I’m going to win.”

He laughed again.

“You sure about that?”

I gave my

reflection a little

smile and felt

him shudder slightly.

“Yes. I am.”

“You don’t have the guts to take me on.”

My smile widened.

“Watch me.”

I turned out

the lights and

left him in

the darkness.

Mom – A Poem

When I was

afraid, you taught

me about

courage.

When I thought

I was too

weak to go

on, you taught

me about

strength.

When I didn’t

think that I

could do something,

you taught me

wisdom.

When I was

ready to give

up, to turn

towards the darkness,

you showed me

how much I

still had to

live for.

And when I

had given up

and sworn that

I would never

love again, you

taught me about

what Love really

is. For all

of this and

more, I am

thankful. You gave

me the foundations

that I needed

as a child,

gave me what

I needed to

build upon those

foundations as a

teenager and as

an adult, you

have given me

the courage, strength,

wisdom and love

to reach for

the stars. I

an thankful for

you and have

no words to

describe my thanks.

I am the

man that I

am today because

of you and

hope that I

make you proud.

I love you

Mom.

A Walk in the Sun by Michelle Zink – A Book Review

Rose Darrow is lost.

After her mother passes away, the running of the family farm falls to her. Her father, John Darrow, is just too grief stricken to do much of anything except exist in a cloud of depression. So the running of the farm falls on her shoulders. She spends every waking moment tending the cattle, working the crops and what little time is left over is devoted to school. Her graduation is coming up.

Normally a source for excitement, Rose doesn’t feel any joy at all. Her life had been filled with plans, places she wanted to go to, things she wanted to see. Now it’s filled with the endless hours of taking care of the farm, the livestock and her father. There is no room for anything else.

She puts her dreams aside, never to be seen again.

Bodhi Lowell is trying to escape his past.

Growing up as the son of an abusive and alcoholic father has left him with a few scars, most of them invisible to the world. After his mother passes away, he leaves home and fends for himself, mostly working on farms to get what experience he needs. He even changed his name to leave his past behind.

When Rose’s aunt Marty hires Body for the summer to help out on the farm, he thinks this will be just what he needs. Make a little money before his dream of flying off to Europe comes to life. What he doesn’t plan on is Rose.

There is something about her that calls so him, that’s like Bodhi already knows her. He senses her pain and sorrow and knows that something has happened to her, but Bodhi doesn’t push. If she wants to tell him, she will.

When the two meet, there are sparks and those sparks turn into fireworks. However, will those fireworks be snuffed out when Rose learns of Bodhi’s plans to leave? Or will they prosper? When love is involved, it’s anybody’s guess.

Some dreams have a way of coming true…

I love this book. Nope, I heart it. It’s been a long time since I’ve read a book that touched me so deeply and on so many different levels.

Michelle Zink delivers a powerhouse of a novel, that touches on a lot of subjects that aren’t in your typical young adult novel: death, abandonment, abuse, alcoholism, isolation. At the same time, she’s written a novel that shows the healing powers of time and, most importantly, of love.

Rose isn’t your typical heroine and Bodhi isn’t your typical hero. The two have their own issues, their own pasts, and together they find a way to move on from those pasts and form a bond with each other. The secondary characters of Lexi, Will, John Darrow and Marty add spark and life to the novel, but make no mistake, this is Rose and Bodhi’s book.

The journey they go on together is so believable and so all consuming that I found myself cheering at this book, laughing out loud and, quite a few times, crying both out of sadness and out of joy. In the end, it didn’t feel like I was holding a book. It felt as if I were holding life itself.

I really connected with Bodhi. His struggle mirrors my own and the emotional depth that she brought to him is so real, so powerful, that I couldn’t help but be moved by him. And which one of us hasn’t lost a family member they love? The emotion encased within A Walk in the Sun is so real.

I implore you to read A Walk in the Sun. Discover how one summer of love can change a whole life and that love really can make miracles happen

The Lotus Tattoo – A Short Story

The tattoo on his wrist was itching again.

It always started this way. Toby always marveled at how it changed, as if his skin were re-writing itself. After the itching came the light. Then a new tattoo would show itself. He had asked his mother once why his tattoo was different than everyone else’s.

“Because you’re different, that’s why.”

“But everyone is born with a tattoo. It’s how we find who we’re supposed to be with. Someone else with the same tattoo is the perfect partner for us.”

His mother had sighed. They had had this conversation several times already and her answer was always the same. This time, however, she had patted the couch beside her and said: “Come and sit next to me.”

Crossing the room, he sat beside his mother, breathing in the scent of lavender she always wore. To Toby, it was the scent of home.

His mother drew up the cuff of her right shirt sleeve. Her tattoo was of a single flower in bloom, encased inside a circle. The petals were just stretching enough to press against the circle. The flower was white and the circle was red. His father had one just like it. He didn’t know what kind of flower it was.

“When I met your father, it was by sheer chance. I was out with a group of ladies from work and he spilled a drink all over me. It was as he was trying to mop up the drink and blot the liquid from my shirt that I saw his tattoo. He didn’t cover his up like most people do and wore it out in the open. When I asked him about it later, he told me that it was like wearing his heart on his sleeve.”

She stroked a finger over her tattoo softly, as if she could still feel his touch on her skin.

“You miss him, don’t you?”

“You know I do, Toby. I know you do, too.”

She was quiet for a moment but when she spoke again, her voice had the soft tone reserved for reliving memories. Jaxon often wondered if she knew he was picturing the memory coming to life in front of them.

“Your father was a marvelous man. He used to say that lotus flowers were special because they grew in mud. He marvelled that something so beautiful could grow in such ugly surroundings. He used to say that the mud was the obstacles of life, the suffering. Only then could the lotus, the wisdom of life, learn to grow.”

As his tattoo’s itch increased, Toby remembered this long ago day. He wondered is his tattoo was part of the mud, the obstacle that he carried with him on his skin. Toby was tired of obstacles and he was tired of men. He was done with them.

When he had met Philip, his tattoo had morphed from a feather into a single eye, seeming to see right into him when he looked at it. He had met Philip off line and they hit it off right away. They often joked with others, putting their wrists together and holding them up, saying: “We can see you!” The first year was full of bliss and then they moved in together.

Then the trouble started.

First Philip told Toby who he could talk to, what jobs he could do. Then he started telling him what friends he could have. Slowly, Philip cut away everyone that mattered out of Toby’s life. It happened so quietly that Toby hadn’t even noticed.

Then Philp drove a wedge in between him and his mother. When she passed away, something broke inside of Toby, something primal and raw. His tattoo had changed, but only slightly. Now it was an eye crying one pearlescent tear.

Moving out and moving away from Philp was the hardest thing that Toby had done. However, when he did so, his tattoo had morphed into a single cube of ice, shining on his wrist. It was cold to the touch. Toby marvelled at the time how the tattoo always mirrored his mood.

Desperate for some kind of companionship, he started to troll the bars. When he met Andrew, who sported his own ice cube tattoo, it didn’t occur to Toby to wonder if this mirrored Andrew’s heart as well as his personality.

On their second date, Andrew criticised how Toby dressed. He even went so far as to compare him to the paper bag princess. His best friend Jessie met Andrew on the third date and, afterward, poured Toby a glass of wine and gave him some advice.

“The guys a fucking loser. Lose him.”

“He’s nice underneath all the criticisms. Really he is.”

“Really? He has a fucking ice cube tattoo. Doesn’t that worry you?”

“Hey…” Toby rubbed at his wrist. “Mine’s an ice cube.”

“Yeah, this week. Who knows what it will change into next.”

“I don’t know if I can be alone.”

“You’re going to have to learn, sweet cheeks. You have to love yourself first.”

“Andrew told me that he loved me.”

“Oh and so soon, before he really knows you. Now you listen to me, Toby Gerald Danes.”

“Really, Jessie? All three names?”

“Yes, all three names. I want to get your attention. The guy is bad news. So was Philip for that matter, but you wouldn’t listen to me then. You listen to me now, okay?”

But Toby didn’t. He fell in love with Andrew and the prestige he exuded, the amount of money he spent on Toby. In the end though, there was something missing, something that Toby needed more than all the money in the world. True love.

Sure, Andrew said he loved him, but he didn’t treat Toby like anything close to the love that he read about. He was always reading something and the love some of the characters felt for each other lived off the page within him. He realised that he wanted real love in real life. He tried to see if he would find that with Andrew.

When Andrew slept with someone else, it was clear that wasn’t going to happen.

Philp and Andrew had been the last in a long string of failed relationships. He just didn’t have luck with men, couldn’t find one that would accept him for who he was and love him completely. He was done.

“Oh, so you’re going to turn into an old man then?” Jessie said.

“What do you mean?” He took a sip of his wine, the bottle sitting on the coffee table between them.

She sat up and looked at him. “You always go on about true love, but you’re just going to give up? Now that you’ve ditched the loser, you’re going to turn your back on love? What’s that about? Look at your tattoo.”

Looking down at his right wrist, he saw his tattoo: a broken heart that had been mended, sewn together with thread. Beside the heart was the spool of thread and the needle. “So? What about it?”

“You’re working on loving yourself, I get that. I totally do. That’s why your tattoo changed again, you’re trying to heal your heart. I know that, but part of healing is getting out there and trying again. You’re always talking about finding love. Why not be open to it?”

“I’m busy loving myself, thanks.”

“That will only get you so far. Look at me and Gavin, we love each other deeply and I never would have met him if I didn’t go out that night.”

Toby knew that Jessie had a point, but he didn’t say that. Instead, after Jessie left, he went back on the computer to try again. He had stopped meeting men in bars a long time ago. They were normally just interested in one thing and one thing only. However, the men all looked the same and he turned off the computer. He needed to get out.

He was showering when his tattoo changed again. It was a simpler one than his previous tattoos, just a small red circle with nothing in the centre. What did it mean? He thought. Shaking his head, he dressed and got ready to go out.

Toby didn’t go to a bar, but to a coffee shop. There was just something about being around other people that made him not feel so alone. Of course he brought a book with him. He was reading The Princess Bride again for the tenth time.

He was about to sit down when a man bumped into him and spilled an iced coffee drink all down the front of Toby’s shirt. The man was apologetic and was blushing furiously. While cleaning off his shirt front, Toby noticed his tattoo. It was a lotus flower.

He remembered what his mothed had said: “…lotus flowers were special because they grew in mud. He marvelled that something so beautiful could grow in such ugly surroundings. He used to say that the mud was the obstacles of life, the suffering. Only then could the lotus, the wisdom of life, learn to grow.”

Without thinking, he reached out and touched the man’s tattoo. “Why don’t you keep yours hidden?” Toby asked.

“I like to wear my heart on my sleeve.” He said. “It’s easier that way. Would you let me buy you a coffee or something to apologize? I’m a really nice guy, honest.”

“You don’t make it a habit to spill drinks on strange men?”

He looked at Toby and smiled. There was a light above his head that made him look as if he were wearing a halo. “You’re not so strange. My name’s Mike. What do you want to drink?”

“Just a coffee, black.”

“Okay, be right back.” Mike said.

Toby sat down at the table, his book in front of him, but instead of delving into the words, he was content to watch Mike as he ordered a coffee for him. Toby felt a moment of lightness that he couldn’t explain, as if his body had finally learned to breathe again.

His wrist began to itch again and he looked down at his tattoo. A single flower was growing in its centre, blooming slowly and reaching out for the edges of the circle. When Mike came back to the table, Toby noticed that Mike’s tattoo mirrored his own now.

Toby saw him looking. “Silly thing keeps changing on me.”

“No,” Toby said. “It’s not silly. Mine does the same thing.”

He showed Mike his own tattoo and Mike reached out to touch it. They watched as both of their tattoos shimmered and the lotus flowers began to shimmer, as if ruffled by a soft breeze. Toby knew what caused that breeze.

His heart had finally healed enough to let love in and it looked as if Mike’s had done the same. As they watched the tattoos, a leaf began to grow beyond the edge of the circle.

Toby wondered what kind of life they could grow together?  Only time would tell and this time, he was ready.