another play as plane descends.
The hatch spews forth luggage. Moving black tongue. Safe on ground. Legs betray. The wine. Feel shaky, indefinite. Travellers fidget, impatient this side of glass wall, search for familiar faces. I see Hugo waiting at Arrivals. Hide behind tall man. Don’t like to stand exposed through glass partition. Might gesture, make helpless faces at each other, grin until our lips twitch.
Charlie and Mommy have found luggage. Come to stand beside me. Charlie’s belt loosened. Gap of shirt shows between vest and trousers. Shakes my hand warmly.
That your young man out there? He’s been watching you. Looks like a nice person. Well, I wish you happiness in life, like Mommy and me. Eh, Mommy? Sorry you didn’t get a chance to read your Capp. He’s a very funny writer. There’s my little girl, he says. Charlie stumbles towards glass doors, arms outstretched.
Jog beside moving belt, drag suitcase backwards and lift. Must start dreaming again. New story needed by Wednesday. Final exam coming up—clouds waves rocks slides. Hugo looks like stranger from here. Walk towards him. Resembles George Burns. When did he start wearing glasses? Leans towards me in taxi. I asked for a double, he says. He kisses me on the ear.
Separation
It is one of those early November evenings when the air is warm but not hot. When light is fading, but the sky, clear behind, still has a touch of blue. Where clouds, navy-grey, are brushed like bats’ wings against one corner of the sky. And an early moon sits full and white, with one sharply profiled cloud across its yawning centre.
Karla, looking straight ahead, pulls me along, her five-yearold hand firmly in mine, and forces me to merge with the late Friday bustle of this small town. We stand on the crest of the hill and look down on the river and, cool on its bank, the bunker-like shopping mall that contains every place of business in this town. Another week is over. Quick footsteps and slammed car doors signal Friday relief. Cars pull out of the parking lot and others replace them. At the mall’s end, men wearing plaid shirts and woollen hats, and with six-packs of beer tucked under their arms, swing through four identical glass doors. I would like to capture the colours, woven into the moving pattern. Off to the side, students from the high school are sitting around the wall of the circular outdoor fountain that is dry, never a success in this town. Nothing fancy here; life can be, and is, lived by its bare essentials.
There are times when I love the solitude, the town sitting separate and apart from all other places. But there are other, exasperating times, when I would flee at a moment’s notice. I have sifted the old argument with myself over and over again. Why stay? I wanted to be far from the interminable demands of the city. I wanted to paint, more and more. But that was before we knew that Alan would be sent away. The thought of him pierces me now. I do not know if the sensation is one of grief or love or pain. I cannot think of it at all, this separation, because if I do the year ahead will break down into separate days, and there are too many of these to consider. Nine years after my marriage to Alan, I am learning to live alone.
Karla, as if she has been excluded by my thoughts, sings one of her sudden songs. It is a song of love addressed to me, and reminds that I am not, after all, as alone as I would believe:
Your lips are red as lipstick
Your eyes are green as grass
She creates the words and the tune as we walk down the slope. “I’m not so good at singing,” she says, abruptly considering, and stops.
“But that song went inside my heart,” I tell her.
We decide to visit our friend Miss Ellis on the way home. Miss Ellis’ family has lived in the town since the first United Empire Loyalists stepped from their small boats on the riverbank just below the site of the present mall. She is the last of her line and has not a single living relation.
The hatch spews forth luggage. Moving black tongue. Safe on ground. Legs betray. The wine. Feel shaky, indefinite. Travellers fidget, impatient this side of glass wall, search for familiar faces. I see Hugo waiting at Arrivals. Hide behind tall man. Don’t like to stand exposed through glass partition. Might gesture, make helpless faces at each other, grin until our lips twitch.
Charlie and Mommy have found luggage. Come to stand beside me. Charlie’s belt loosened. Gap of shirt shows between vest and trousers. Shakes my hand warmly.
That your young man out there? He’s been watching you. Looks like a nice person. Well, I wish you happiness in life, like Mommy and me. Eh, Mommy? Sorry you didn’t get a chance to read your Capp. He’s a very funny writer. There’s my little girl, he says. Charlie stumbles towards glass doors, arms outstretched.
Jog beside moving belt, drag suitcase backwards and lift. Must start dreaming again. New story needed by Wednesday. Final exam coming up—clouds waves rocks slides. Hugo looks like stranger from here. Walk towards him. Resembles George Burns. When did he start wearing glasses? Leans towards me in taxi. I asked for a double, he says. He kisses me on the ear.
Separation
It is one of those early November evenings when the air is warm but not hot. When light is fading, but the sky, clear behind, still has a touch of blue. Where clouds, navy-grey, are brushed like bats’ wings against one corner of the sky. And an early moon sits full and white, with one sharply profiled cloud across its yawning centre.
Karla, looking straight ahead, pulls me along, her five-yearold hand firmly in mine, and forces me to merge with the late Friday bustle of this small town. We stand on the crest of the hill and look down on the river and, cool on its bank, the bunker-like shopping mall that contains every place of business in this town. Another week is over. Quick footsteps and slammed car doors signal Friday relief. Cars pull out of the parking lot and others replace them. At the mall’s end, men wearing plaid shirts and woollen hats, and with six-packs of beer tucked under their arms, swing through four identical glass doors. I would like to capture the colours, woven into the moving pattern. Off to the side, students from the high school are sitting around the wall of the circular outdoor fountain that is dry, never a success in this town. Nothing fancy here; life can be, and is, lived by its bare essentials.
There are times when I love the solitude, the town sitting separate and apart from all other places. But there are other, exasperating times, when I would flee at a moment’s notice. I have sifted the old argument with myself over and over again. Why stay? I wanted to be far from the interminable demands of the city. I wanted to paint, more and more. But that was before we knew that Alan would be sent away. The thought of him pierces me now. I do not know if the sensation is one of grief or love or pain. I cannot think of it at all, this separation, because if I do the year ahead will break down into separate days, and there are too many of these to consider. Nine years after my marriage to Alan, I am learning to live alone.
Karla, as if she has been excluded by my thoughts, sings one of her sudden songs. It is a song of love addressed to me, and reminds that I am not, after all, as alone as I would believe:
Your lips are red as lipstick
Your eyes are green as grass
She creates the words and the tune as we walk down the slope. “I’m not so good at singing,” she says, abruptly considering, and stops.
“But that song went inside my heart,” I tell her.
We decide to visit our friend Miss Ellis on the way home. Miss Ellis’ family has lived in the town since the first United Empire Loyalists stepped from their small boats on the riverbank just below the site of the present mall. She is the last of her line and has not a single living relation.
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