In This Moment
In hospice, most days are not easy. There's a parade of pills, injections, infusions and pumps that have to be gone through to maintain the balance of health that is visible from outside the walls. It is the hard work the medical staff constantly do so that I can be as joyful about the little things I still, happily, get to experience.
And sometimes I need a stronger reminder. And today, I need an extra strong reminder. Which, happily, I have in the form of Healey and Balm Beach.
Healey, the only place in the whole oblate spheriod that's ever had the fortune of being home. A place where a railway meets a bay on a lake, where trains traveling from east or west light up the land and water in dramatic effect, passing each night. Where the full moon turns the gently rippling water into billions and billions of fish scales, seperating the millions of fireflies stuck in the sky from the cold dark where the scaled ones really live. The place I like to swim, to campfire, to watch the sun silently set, night after night, as I do here, in hospice.
The home to the last of my railway demigods, totems to a telegraph age long gone by, replaced by fiber and reliability. Replaced Healey. There's no where like it, yet everywhere is or could be. It's just my spot.
You shouldn't visit, there's nothing but ghosts left, and they're not you ghosts to play with. Balm Beach is much more inviting, has a similar sort of specialness to me, but in a sharable sort of way. Its ghosts are inviting, at least during the summer months, so you have a little time left to acquaint yourselves with them. It would be more rewarding, try yourself the brisket poutine and a Wasaga Beach Cerveza, it comes with a recommendation from the living James, too.