Judy Walker

The Other Side of Selfishness

Did you grow up being told you are selfish? I did. The wagging finger and the "Shame on You" from a misguided adult is a vivid memory. I knew viscerally, the feeling of guilt in my body each time I was accused of selfishness or putting myself or my needs ahead of someone else's. Guilt did not feel good then and it doesn't feel good now.

My Writing is Still Remarkably Real.

It’s the day after the winners were announced. There was a delay. I was secretly thankful because I could still dream of winning. Or placing second, or even third. One of my submissions made Top Story. Surely, there was a chance. Then, the winners were announced and…wait for it…my name was not among them.

Letting Go.

The Pantry.

Sabrina made her way down the stairs still in her nightgown. It’s Sunday after all, she thought, a day of rest and relaxation. Except for the items on Fred’s, “To Do List” waiting to be crossed off, the critical voice inside her added.

Dearly Beloved.

I am having trouble accepting this truth. The truth that you and I are no longer a we. How did this happen? How did we get here?

The Me who Remains.

The possibilities of loss didn’t include this uprooting, this stripping away and removing of bricks that once stood solid inside my walls and now,

All that's Left.

I sit, pencil poised, waiting for the muse to perch on my shoulder. I want to write about something important, like forgetting and remembering,

Day 1095.

Day 1. I speak only Czech. In Canada, I am mute. In Canada, the words I have spoken for the last twelve years have no meaning. English takes up space on the radio while the water boils for tea. In the elevator while the old woman trains her eyes on the numbers and mumbles quietly to herself. On the bus to ESL school where girls my age spill secrets behind cupped hands into each other’s ears. I do not understand. I feel erased.

For the Love of Yellow:

I’m the slash of light in the iris petal. I'm the joyous kitchen wall and the polka dot of springtime.

Why Crying it Out is the Best Medicine.

About halfway through my twenty-minute silent sit on the park bench this morning, I registered the voices of a man and a child. Since my eyes were closed and I was “supposed” to be meditating, I assumed they were playing in the playground. Suddenly, instead of happy squeals, the child broke into a loud cry, a full, unbridled, using-all-her-lung-power sort of cry.

Love is a Fire that Burns Unseen.

The first time Sheila set fire to one of Howie’s buildings, was seven years ago. “Burn!” she had sobbed through snot and tears. “Burn!” She wanted to destroy him for leaving her for that bleach-haired, botoxed floozy of a secretary of his. What a cliché he had turned out to be.

Be True.

There comes a day when all the masks you hide behind fall away: The pleasing mask. The staying small mask. The mask you believed