Tuesday (With Snails)

The snails come out when it rains.

When the wet of the air matches that of their bodies—or should I say, their feet. Do they walk all day? Sliding forward til they hit a skyscraper? A wall which never stops them, but turns their forward into upwards, their crosswords into downs, leaving their slime trail to dry on the glass of windows, to be discovered when the sun comes out.

People harvest the stuff these days, the slime.

They pack it up and sell it in over-priced tubes of face cream—$90 for 2 oz. at Sephora, and people buy it. Anything for transformation, always fighting where we’re going, pulling our skin up the moment it starts to sag, like blinds kept in place with snail stuff.

I must have left a window open.

How else would a snail be making its way up my kitchen’s table leg? I’m just happy my dog didn’t eat it like the frog she did last summer. This was before I knew there were snails living in the city.

Do they always travel alone?

Must take them forever to find each other when they go their separate ways. No cell phones, no footprints, slime trails washed away in the rain. Just a bit ago, I was sharing the sidewalk with one. Spotted it on the concrete while I was walking up the hill to Montreal General Hospital. It was headed in the same direction. Maybe even the same place.

Je suis en avance!

A first for me, I think as I walk through the slow-sliding hospital doors. I’ve grown used to utter confusion. Used to dissecting signs in hopes of finding a familiar word, wandering around in an ‘I’m not lost’ kind of way, to hide my naive americanness. Thankfully, no one knows until I open my mouth.

I enjoy it while it lasts, blending in.

But my shirt reads “support your local frogs” (in English), which doesn’t support my cause (just the guilt I feel about the frog my dog ate). I watch how it attracts the eyes of people passing, trying to read my shirt without looking like they’re trying to read my shirt. A few double takes, followed by a smile. It’s not the kind of attention I mind—a subtle jolt to someone’s auto-pilot that calls the muscles of their mouths to attention, ensuring they’re doing their job. It’s needed in places like this, where most are either concerned or heartbroken, some thankful despite it all, and a lucky few, ecstatic (in maternity?).

I can’t tell if I’m nauseous

because I’m always nauseous or because I’m experiencing a strange form of motion sickness from everything happening here. A woman at reception, hot pink crocs, caterwauls a number of complaints: acid reflux, her doctor on vacation, etc.. Everyone’s staring. Her mood, not as flowery as her spring dress. Around the corner, a room filled with light brown pews. Seats like no other seats in the building hold a person crying on their knees. Can you think of anything more serious than a cathedral in a hospital, little gift shop beside it?

I don’t understand hospital gift shops.

How they look like the Visitor Center at a National Park, the kind where you’d snag a cliche souvenir on your way out. Guess I should count myself lucky, my lack of understanding, but I want to know—who here is looking to buy a cheap pair of sunnies and why? Oh. Never mind, it just clicked. But I’m still at a loss for the trashy silver necklaces, plastic keychains, and other random items. I suppose it’s comforting, not showing up empty handed to a room full of people you haven’t seen in ages. Anything to make the guilt less heavy, the diagnosis less insurmountable; objects as temporary storage containers when our bodies max out.

I see the sign for Gastro-entérologie

and turn right, recognizing my gratitude for words that keep their shape across languages. The ensuing hallway a memorial for nurses, who served in WWII. Their names on plaques fill sad-beige walls, in place of fliers that collect on others. I scan the lists like I’m looking for someone, but they’re empty names, no faces, except for one—a woman’s portrait in white ward dress, kindness seeping from the acrylic. When I arrive, en gastro-entérologie, the waiting room seats are full. Would’ve brushed shoulders with the stranger to my left, if not for see-through dividers—remnants of the COVID era. An hour to kill before my appointment, my stomach growls. While all else reminds me this is no place for hunger,

surrounded by a bunch of people with stomach aches.

© P. Ryan

Note: The piece can be read in its original form here