The Death of Small Creatures by Trisha Cull Page B

individual apple?” I say.
    She laughs. “Yeah, so? It’s just my thing.”
    â€œMy neighbour has an apple tree,” I say. “And a cat named Cake.”
    â€œA cat named what?”
    â€œGateau,” I say. “Like French for cake.”
    She rolls her eyes. “Could it be
gatto
? Like Italian for cat?”

    I keep going, now with a big bathmat and two litres of water. I continue practising. You do not do yoga; you practise yoga. My muscles stretch, my core tightens, my legs grow stronger. It hurts and strains.
    â€œA millimetre farther each time,” Wendy says. “Baby steps… wherever you are is where you’re meant to be.” So I pull on my heels and arch my back and let my palms fall open.
    I am becoming the half-moon, the eagle, the tree.
    I can feel the earth beneath my feet.
    I breathe.

    I drink rose petal tea, lean out my kitchen window and inhale the scent of life sprouting in the garden: geraniums, wisteria, clematis climbing up the fence, twirling around the lower branches of the plum tree.
    Gatto blinks, sniffs the wind.
    â€œI’m sorry, Gatto,” I say.
    Ti amo. Ti amo. Ti amo.

    The sign in the Thrifty’s produce section reads:
Very ripe mangos should only be eaten naked in a bathtub.
On the way home, Linden and I stop at Starbucks. I get a vanilla soy latte and say, “Sweetheart, you get whatever you want.”
    We walk through the Ross Bay Cemetery, the bay sparkling in the distance through trees and rows of tombstones. Somewhere in here is Emily Carr. And Matthew Begbie, the Hanging Judge. On days like this I don’t mind walking among the dead. “Do you think you’re smart?” Linden says.
    â€œSure,” I say.
    â€œWhat’s your favourite colour?”
    â€œBlue.”
    â€œWhat colour is my hair?”
    â€œBrown.”
    â€œWhat colour is the sky?”
    â€œBlue.”
    â€œWhat was the first question I asked you?”
    â€œDo you think you’re smart?” I say, and she laughs, covers her mouth with her hands, her brown hair shimmering in sunlight. “I think you’re amazing,” I say.
    I catch myself smiling, thinking about eating mangos in a bathtub.
    We sit down on a bench. I hold a mango in my hands, watch the white sails drift past in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Cherry blossoms float through the air. Every so often I see the bright colours of a spinnaker as a sailor jibes and changes course.
    Is this the cloud lifting, these colours blooming against the blue sky? Is this the blue sky? Maybe I don’t need to know why.
    My front teeth pierce through the surface, find an edge and pull the pink-green skin away from the fruit in broad sections. I bite down and take the flesh inside.

Journal
    December 4, 2008
    Something mysterious happened this morning as I jolted awake to find my husband dressing in the darkness. It had the weather of acute despair, hopelessness and guilt all tied up in one. It had this weather but it had no name or shape or weight. It is awful to wake into such a nameless weather, like waking up stillborn but also alive.
    I saw that he was in great pain. He had bags under his eyes darker than I’ve ever seen before. He was emitting a new energy, and perhaps it was this energy, this aura of despair, that pulled me from my sleep so urgently. It occurred to me that his pain might be trumping my own.
    How selfish have I been?
    His hair was messy. He looked aged. I realized my husband had aged overnight.
    He had slept in for the second day in a row. He was in a hurry and late for work. He had been drinking last night. He has been drinking every night as a matter of fact. I saw that my husband has been in pain for a long time. He has steadfastly been going to work without fail, all this time, every day, earning money, supporting me, taking care of me, making child support payments to his ex, working every day at his job, trying to deal with sick and crazy me,