Nostalgia; sorta.

a zine by Branden On

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~I was always of the idea that my neighbourhood wasn’t particularly fond of me in the way that your stomach disagrees with a particular vegetable. I was a piece of gum that stomach had been trying to digest for years.

There are two steps in front of the door, which are concrete and very cold to sit on this time of year. The grey tiles of the walkway are wet with light precipitation, and they lead to the slightly darker surface of the paved driveway. The light red brick wal l that houses the garage is weathered, but it’s looked the same way for at least fifteen years. It resembles the exterior of the high school across the street. That's right, a mere few metres of pavement away from my home lies an educational institution for the most troublesome youth to be found: the French-Catholic. Despite all this, the outside looks surprisingly well kept, with what looks like it would've been a nice patch of shrubs and a few trees a few months ago. But right now, the dry carcasses of half dead plants hang, with the yellowed grass newly uncovered from the snow underneath. The outside of the high school was renovated a few years back, which improved the look of the area by a couple points, but also attracted hordes of skateboarders to its rails and ramps. Those weren’t the people the school was trying to make it more accessible to, but that’s the way it goes.

The mulch under the plants is a contrasting reddish brown, which would almost look alright in any other season. At this moment, the pale pink and grey of the concrete feels dull and washed out, and the mulch’s colour makes the eyes ache. The sky is a lighter grey than the pavement, but not by much. The trees and power lines to the side of the school meet it with great frailty. Farther in the

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distance, the houses behind the school and past its parking lot are visible. Just over the dumpster, a few parked cars, a snowbank, and some sort of concrete outdoor vault lie the most recently constructed homes in the area, wide enough to fit several families in each. They are lined up in military-like rows, neat little cars parked outside nearly each one. Farther to the side and closer to me, in between the new townhouses and my yard, lie the school's portable classrooms and its other parking lot.

There’s nothing really bad about the neighbourhood, per se; it’s just that there isn’t really anything good about it either. It’s a place you survived, not a place that you lived. Everything covered in some shade of grey or beige or some nauseating other colour leaves nothing to the imagination. It stifles thought and dulls the emotions, like an institution.

Surprisingly, there are not many French Catholic schools around these parts, and so this one serves that part of the population for miles around. The building itself is not nearly big enough to house all of its kindergarten to Grade 12 students, and so small, rectangular, metal boxes labeled "P1", “P2”, and the like are made to be a ‘temporary’ replacement for the main brick building in various parts of a student's day. These are arranged in rows as well, perpendicular to the houses behind. Their excrement brown roofs, sidewalk grey walls, and fluorescent orange and blue signs are by far the ugliest thing this neighbourhood has to offer. More cars arranged in more rows are off even farther to the side. In front of the portables stands the tacky blue sign for the school. In front of that, the street. And in front of that, my yard.

Even my own home feels like a part of it. Never having lived anywhere else, never having travelled anywhere far enough to feel different than here, I’m driven away from it. I spend the majority of my time away from my house, because there’s no way to live here. Everything else happens somewhere else. I know that I’m moving away in just a few months. But at the same time, I don’t know how to live anywhere else.

Most of the yard is still buried in some form of frozen water, with a few notable exceptions. The traffic sign telling impatient bus drivers and soccer moms to go no faster than 40 kilometers per hour remains standing tall on the edge of the yard. Closer to me is our tree, which is still nicer to look at than most things here, even in its current state. It has seen better days.The light post that we've never used sits beside it. To the right of both, partially covering the

school's sign from my view, is one of my mother's shrubs, still tied up with Christmas lights. We didn’t always leave our lights up year round, but I suppose after 18 years you get a bit tired of it. Even the shrub is not entirely green, with distinct sickly tinges of orange and yellow unmistakably present. The small garden surrounding it is in a slumber underneath. Close enough to touch, right beside the step, is another row of shrubs, lining our front window. For whatever reason, these are healthier, Their orange, dead parts are visible to me, sitting right beside them, but they hide their sickness well, presenting a passable decoration to the outside world. There isn’t a plant out here that isn’t like that. The area itself is coughing up blood, spitting it out, and saying they’ll visit the doctor next week. Their dead debris lies on the walkway, under my feet. There are even needles on this cold, hard step.

I like to think that I was the stronger one, that I was the one who made it sick and couldn’t be digested. But that’s not true. I know that the metal boxes, the dying plants, the old bricks, and the ice will follow me wherever I go.

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~I open my eyes and I can feel myself falling into you.

The ends of my mouth rise like the warm sun over the lake at dawn when I see your message. I find myself breathing slightly heavier than I usually do when I reply.

My eyes are wide with disbelief as you continue to share your time and thoughts with someone you've only met once before in your life. The fingertips peacefully resting on my keyboard begin to twitch as it dawns on me that it feels like we've met many times. Lying on the edge of the black desk my computer is on, my wrists begin to become sore from all the typing I'm doing. You talk about an old friend of mine that you go to school with. You ask if I'm going to an event that the friends we share are going to. You seem like you're genuinely interested in me and you ask what I'm interested in. You say love a lot.

I don't mind that.

My eyes seldom falter in their attention to what you are saying. They feel more open than they have ever been.

My shoulders shake up and down as I laugh at the ridiculous video of an internet rapper that you sent me.

The nerves on the top of my head tingle when we talk about writing and you link me to this site.

I won't post this on there because you'd read it.

The conversation has stopped for the moment. I am holding my breath until it starts again.

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We never got to stargaze.

And I was a stranger again.

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~am I destined to be alone? the endless sleepless nights would certainly like to say so eyes glued open, choking back words that I'll never say to anyone. the silent tick tock of the clock as time rolls on at a deafening speed only growing faster plastering a fresh layer of doubt in my mind's wall the old one's still there; it's just covered is all. I swipe left and right sending distress signals to all nearby ships "mayday, mayday" until I am cut off and told to come back tomorrow. there is an SOS painted in flames on my forehead but more and more then I begin to think everyone is too busy for me. even when someone swoops into my life giving a hope of rescue they dip out quick, just as the next will do and I will wash my clothes, trying to get rid of your residue but scrubbing you from my mind is something that I just couldn't do. maybe the pain would be better off avoided but if the choice is there I'd rather a chance than nothing.

nothing begets nothing, and the last thing I want is to be a father.

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