I and my father, we
talk on the phone for hours on a
bright Sunday morning.
I tell him about Montreal's
and he tells me about Edmonton's winter winds.
The sun rises as we talk about our week,
and falls as we talk about the news.
He asks me if I
want to talk to mom.
I tell him we already talked.
We say our goodbyes,
hang up the phone,
and the miles separate us once again.
I lean back in my chair as my
tiny dorm room grows into a
world of silence.
I have to get out.
With the push of a button my
battery-powered isolation machine
lights up in my hand.
I plug the tiny speakers into my ears and
drown out the loneliness with
My iPod will stay warm in my pocket,
and I'll stay warm in my wool jacket.
The canvas bags I carry for the groceries
need no warmth of mine.
They need only things to carry.
So down the stairs, and
out the door I go.
The bags flap in the wind,
held only by
cloth handles gripping my arm.
I shiver as winter's first warning
chills me to the bones.
My breath isn't freezing yet as it
escapes my lips, but it feels as if it should.
I bring my arms in close,
and begin my journey to something new
Alone, I pick up potatoes
and pre-cooked turkey from the store.
I shy away from the cash registers run by
other human beings, but I
find no warmth in the talking machine.
But at the very least,
it says thank you as I
take my receipt.
Then it's back home again.
Home, where the blare of the TV became my
roommate for the holiday weekend.
It tells me the afternoon news as I
peel potatoes for my feast.
Dinner is ready by the
fourth time they mention the economy,
and my first Thanksgiving is over
by the fifth time they mention the elections.
With my remote, I chase out the cacophony,
noise of silence fills my ears once again.
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