​Water lapped against the craggy shore as Thalia stared at the weathered dock. She could see her sister still, a moment trapped in time, unmooring the lone boat, turning toward her one last time, winking, pretending everything would be all right, that she was all right.

​A respected elder, a survivor of the lake, had spoken to Thalia then, “If she’s strong enough, she’ll return. She should be given the chance to try.” Always so calm, these survivors were, confident, charismatic, returned better than they were before, changed. Enviably so. “But at what cost?” a still grieving family member of a soul lost to the secrets of the lake shouted in reply. A 

“I bet you were as snug as a bug in a rug in your new sleeping bag.” I cringe as soon as the words leave my mouth.

My teenage stepdaughter rolls her eyes. “Oh god. That’s so cliché. Can’t you at least be original?”

​It was a mistake to engage with her this morning, so I finish filling my travel mug and escape out the cabin door. My breath puffs in the mountain air while I take mincing steps down the frosty ramp to the kayak. Its molded plastic seat is unpleasantly cold against my bare legs when I settle into the cockpit. It is chillier 

The canoe bumps and skitters. The tide is low and Ronald drags it first over rocks (screak), then sand (swoosh) and finally through muddy sea grass (squilsh). He debates putting his headphones on but decides against it.   In the morning, early in the light, the sounds are mostly singular, an echo only of themselves. He feels he can handle any discordant noise. If he turns on the noise-cancelling, he will miss the sounds he loves – the squelch of his crocs in the mud, the squawk of the gulls in the distance, the squidge of water displaced by clams, shooting up in miniature fountains. Still, it is only when the canoe is afloat and he steps inside, pushing off the mud with his paddle that he loses the jittery nerves. He is alone,

In a package
in a drawer,
in a cabinet, china-stuffed,
some serviettes wait patiently;
a thin wrapper of cellophane
the veil that divides design from destiny--
that single, elegant moment of
wiping a wayward smudge of soup or sauce
off hand or lips or cheek.
 
In a box
within a box,
in a drawer of fancy baubles,
some precious jewels lie dormant;
a thin patina of tarnish
obscuring their previous state of glory,
while newer, brighter counterparts
sparkle and dangle frequently
from ear and neck and wrist.

​When we moved in, the walls looked like puke. Brown and yellowish-green flakes of old paint hung off of cracked surfaces, making it look like the inside of the house was shedding its skin. No problem my mom said, nothing a little elbow grease can’t fix, right, honey? Dad, looking resigned, told Amy and me to run upstairs and find our new rooms. Amy darted like a jackrabbit, pulling me along. Can you believe we live in a place with stairs, she said. Seven-year-olds are so easy to impress.
 
I was two years older and infinitely more wise. The move from our apartment downtown to the fixer-

​How many Eggs can fit in one basket? Three eggs, unhatched and dispatched to the hidden basket. The basket is full.
 
I am solitary, the hen not fitting in, surrounded by two roosters, six ladies in waiting and a waddling of ducks.  The hens despise me, pecking at my tail feathers and pushing me to eat at the block of Irish Soda Bread. That soda bread prevailed, no one could peck through it.
 
King rooster asserts dominance over all, especially the cockerel, who seems purposeless – to the ladies. 

​“Are you feeling lucky?” asked Babs.
“I’m at a bingo hall, so no.”
“Come on, Leanne. You have to admit, it’s kind of fun.”
“If by fun you mean being the subject of death stares from all the regular players, then
yes.”
“N-23,” announced the caller.
A muffled shout came from across the hall. “Bingo!”
Babs pounded her fist on the table, toppling over her good-luck charm, a pink-haired troll. “Serves you right!” she said to the troll. “You’re supposed to make me win! You’d better come through on the next one. We’re playing for the Clubhouse.”

​I heard you
as you turned from the subway station to the small park
and onto our street,
            singing.
Or maybe my heart heard you,
the connection we had to each other pinged just a little,
so that the part of me tuned in to you caught my attention
for a small second
as you entered our street,
turned right,
and began your last block home,
for I don’t think you would dare to sing so loudly
in the middle of the afternoon
that I could hear you at the end of the block,

it seemed like a good idea
at the time
cross the street, to avoid conversation
after all, I was in a hurry
morning rush, winter schedule

it seemed like a good idea at the time
to wait, wait for another
convenient moment

adjusting her burgundy scarf
she turns at the familiar corner
pausing for the light to change

fogged window, frozen smile
still burning in my memory
from the other side

if I could only reverse
the grey heaviness of that morning
but that is not how time works

“I’ve always hated this song. It teaches kids to tease someone for being different, until they somehow prove themselves worthy.”

Claire stared at the traffic light. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer reached its climactic conclusion. The voice of an over-excited DJ once again clamoured through the speakers.

“Don’t you think?”

​The light turned green, and Mike accelerated ​into the cloud of exhaust from the car ahead.​