you tilt your head
up to the sky
filled with cumulonimbus clouds
about to downpour
one of us needs to die
you whisper
as if some well-hearing wind god
might hear your plea
Down Leuty Avenue, storm clouds swirl above us like gnarled tree roots wrenched from the earth––a tangled, untethered thrashing. The lake churns, dark and swallowing. Normally bursting with so much activity––joggers, dog walkers, sea birds, kite fliers––the beach is near deserted. The only life here today is the small group of us gathering for our friends’ wedding ceremony.
We pause when we reach the wood-slatted boardwalk that runs parallel to the lake. I take in the view like I’ve never been here before: the white clapboard lifeguard station with its rooftop lookout tower, the jutting, pebbled shoreline, the historic bathing station to our distant west. On our second date picnic a decade ago, we sipped wine camouflaged in water bottles, watched seagulls dive into the waves under the backdrop of the sunset, shared a first kiss. We began planning for our future, despite it being so early in our relationship: we’d settle here, no matter how small of a footprint we could afford, so that we’d be within breathing distance of these shores. But today, it is as if those moments, and all the ones we’ve shared here since––roller blading with coffees in hand, Sunday morning strolls, enjoying live music and watching fireworks on Canada Day––never really happened.
While I reminisce about the uncomplicated days, he’s focused straight ahead, gearing up for our next maneuver: how to roll my wheelchair from the elevated boardwalk onto the sunken beach, while keeping us both upright. He doesn’t allow himself the luxury of longing, reminders from our past. He will stay on task, stomping his desire to flee, into the sand.
We’re late, again. We’ve yet to factor in the extra time it takes for him to care for us both. I need his hands to wash and dress me, comb and ponytail my hair, transfer me from passenger seat to wheelchair. He is re-learning my body but not in the way either of us desires. I keep still when he helps me, my expression vacant, as if inertia will stall our relationship’s plummet. This is a proximity neither of us have warmed to. I am a reluctant sick person. He is an impassive caregiver. We each crave rescue. He curses and wriggles his way through each task. He’s stopped brushing his teeth and forgets to eat. I cry in solitude, have begun losing my voice to grief. Some absences begin before the body leaves.
On the beach and under an arched structure made of fresh flowers and vines, the marriage officiant holds a script and gestures for the guests to take their seats. I’m tempted to tell him to go the rest of the way––about twenty meters––without me. I’m breathless out here in the open, and the terrain forward is daunting. I envision being parked too near to the shore, the tide rising and sweeping me away. I have no way to anchor myself in this body, can no longer run or swim. How easy it would be for me to disappear into the violent melancholy of the surf, under the striking grey of this October sky.
But he won’t let me go. Not here, like this.
The marrying couple face each other, join hands. A thick, white foam crashes into the rocky shoreline, muting their vows. I want to escape with him before anyone notices we’re gone, hold him until his breaking point recedes into my flesh. But I don’t voice this to him either, afraid my longing will sound like conceding––or worse, an ugly kind of neediness. We’ve worked so hard to be here, with our dear friends. We don’t want to be forgotten. We need our community.
We’re not enough in just each other.
A disengaged floral arrangement bounces across the sand and one of the guests stands from her chair to retrieve it. She looks over at us, waves an inviting hello, and I recognize her as my partner’s new running friend. I’m relieved when she turns away and returns to her chair. My partner lets out a deep exhale. He unlocks my brakes and tilts my wheelchair back, moves toward the edge of the boardwalk. My front tires elevate in a wheelie and the rear wheels thump onto the beach, a half meter below.
His grip is tight as he pushes me through the sand, like he’s afraid he might let go, drive one or both of us into the rushing, frigid water. But the more he pleads, the more my wheels refuse to turn. They sink into the sand. He grunts from the effort of urging my mobility device to roll across landscape it wasn’t designed to pass over. I almost fall out of the chair as he wrenches it out from the crevasse. He nearly falls, dragging it back to the boardwalk, his despair like a shriek from an injured animal.
He used to carry me in softer ways—piggybacking me during tipsy late-night swims, spinning me in the kitchen while singing the lyrics to a favorite song. Now, he transports me, bearing the weight of moving us both.
When we’re once again on solid ground, he squats beside me on the damp wood slats, wet sand clinging to the hems of his pants. We watch our friends, surrounded by other friends, marry in the distance. Only a spout of cheer reaches us through the wind. He looks at me for what feels like the first time today, opens his mouth to speak.
I had plans for us.
His words erupt from the underbelly of something hollow––an emptiness, where longing used to be. He shifts his eyes to my hands and runs his fingers over the blurred white lines where my wedding bands used to sit. The last traces of my summer tan—before my paralysis took hold—cling stubbornly to my skin, as if to remind me I am still here. His reach is instinctive now; he has learned I can no longer meet him halfway, that all embraces begin with him. And then he squeezes me gently, holding me while I disappear into the deep green of his eyes, the shrunken, still-mighty, shape of him.
I try to reach my hand to him in response. I want to wrap my arm around his shoulder, run a finger over the plush of his lips, touch any part of him. My command is instinctive too. In this moment, I forget about my paralysis. Little flickers of nothingness tingle under my skin, trying to take instruction from my brain.
I’m sorry, is all I muster in response.
He tilts his head up to the sky, filled with cumulonimbus clouds about to downpour. One of us needs to die, he whispers, as if some well-hearing wind god might hear his plea.
And then as if to relieve me from summoning an appropriate response––pleading with him in desperation, spinning his words into a morbid joke, reassuring him we’ll find our way––the rain teems, and we race back up Leuty Avenue to our parked car. He waits to speak again when the car is turned around and we’re heading north, the beach behind us in the distance. The radio purrs the jazzy soul of Amy Winehouse, and heat flows in from the vents.
I love you. I always will. The same familiar animal whimper is in his voice, as if his heart is giving out.
Even then, I’m convinced he’ll stay.
At the evening reception, he carries me up two flights of stairs, slung over his shoulder, in a fireman rescue. I arrive ass first to the greeting couple and wedding party. A warm laughter erupts. I would’ve found this funny too if I’d been on the other side of my rear, or if we’d pulled it as a prank, rather than because of necessity.
Everyone is thrilled we’ve joined them, acknowledge how difficult it must’ve been, offer to take our coats, get us a drink from the bar. I want the attention to boomerang back to them. I want to be a fly on the wall. I want to go back to before.
A few friends rush over, help transfer me to a seated bench, calm my wind-blown hair, brush the sand off my dress, hug me. They feed me little bites of cheese and mushroom tartlet, skewered cherry tomatoes, and sliced cucumbers drizzled in a balsamic vinegar and olive oil glaze. I take sips from strawberry- and peach-coloured cocktails they hold before me. I bite a maraschino cherry off a swizzle stick, its sweetness pooling in my cheeks before sliding down my throat. Before long, the alcohol dulls the sharp edge of my afternoon, the furious chill that had swept through my bloodstream. I remain seated, yet I am also somewhere else—watching from above. I float between the dangling metal chandeliers and suspended glass orbs. I glide like a quelling storm. Below, I spot my partner in conversation with his new running friend––the woman who saved the wayward floral arrangement at the beach––and I throw my arms around him in surprise.
Look, I’m fine. I’m all better, I say. No need to drift. No one needs to die.
A hazy melody vents from the D.J. booth. One of my friends sets down our drinks and steps in front of me, clasping my hands. She sways back and forth in a velvety rhythm, guiding me in the motion, my arms linked with hers. I let her tenderness convince me nothing has changed, that I belong here.
Mel Williams (she/her) is a Toronto-based writer living with Transverse Myelitis. Her memoir was runner-up for AWP’s 2025 Sue William Silverman Prize for Creative Nonfiction and will be published in 2028 with Cynren Press. You can find some of her craft, fiction and poetry, in The Fiddlehead, Brevity Blog, and Dribble Drabble Review.
Substack: @littleflames
Instagram: @meljowilliams
Facebook: @MelWilliamsWriter
LinkedIn: @MelissaWilliamsWriter