“In 2000 at the old Walmart, an elderly couple sat on a bench waiting for the bus. Wearing a matching short set and with eyes only for each other, some words were spoken. I waited many years to write an interpretation imagining what their backstory really entailed. Apart from their words at the end, the rest is fiction”
Hand in hand, we sway against the pull of the city transit as it clambers down the street during rush hour. I really could’ve planned better, but what’s an outing if not spontaneous as Chummy was known to have said when we’d first met in the bread lines at the end of the war. It became his mantra even after we’d landed in Halifax with me, 8 months pregnant with Dago. When I think what he had to contend with, it’s a wonder he married me at all.
It’s very hot today with temperatures in the high 30s but the heat feels good on my bones. If Birdie feels like it, maybe we’ll take a walk along the water before heading home. What a treat that’ll be, dipping our toes in the St Lawrence one behind the other-charging into the waves like a couple of soldiers off to war. If I squint just so and she turns her head like that, I swear it’s looking at my own mum- now isn’t that a fine picture!
Lifting the basket with both hands and with help from a young rider, I’m able to get us both off the bus in one piece. There’s a soft breeze blowing around the corner, ruffling my dress that takes me back to my youth and with closed eyes, I let myself drift to that other life and it amazes me how one memory can restore my sense of excitement for the wonderful life that was to come.
Giving us each a napkin, I set out the sandwiches and baggies of cheese and pickles. Somewhere a child is screaming causing Chummy to look up suddenly while I sit there holding my breath-heart pounding out of my chest. I thank God silently for the mosquito that buzzes on his earlobe, for the distraction is enough to change the wavelength of his attention.
We don’t often talk of the children anymore, but whenever I’m alone and pass mothers with strollers I make a point of striking up conversation, just for those little reminders when I had my own babies. But Chummy’s reaction today worries me and my magnificent plan seems to have fallen right out of the sky.
While packing up, I realize we’ll need to make a detour before heading home. I don’t like these big box stores and finally realize that everything gets old when you’re my age, even time. Here I’ve lost my way and Chummy’s wandered ahead of me, while I search in vain for an employee when suddenly I find myself in the camera department. On the walls are portraits of smiling, happy families and blended families when it hits me right there in the middle of it all.
Through the years and the thousands of moments before sleep overtakes me, I see Dago and Luca skipping hand in hand down the street in their size 6 jumpers as we make our way to the boardwalk. Chummy is calling ahead to Dago who looks back smiling at me, only to frown when seeing the look on my face, and then . . . the horns are blaring and the traffic screeches and I realize it’s not a dream.
It’s really over and they’re gone forever – and I will never eat fish and crisps again or set foot near the shore to watch the sunset, or read another bedtime story or wear flowers in my hair.
I often wonder who they would’ve become had their parents not been so whimsical. The door swinging open, brings me back to center and as if on cue, Chummy takes my hand and leads me to the wooden bench to wait for the bus.
“Birdie, did we go to the mountains on our honeymoon – and lay out under the stars?”
“Yes, Chum, we did”
“Did we have a good life?”
“We most certainly did!”
“But, Birdie – was I a good husband?”
“Yes, Chummy – the very best”
“… and was I a good father”….and with wringing hands, his body rocking on the bench he asks again in his own way – in a whisper, “was I a good man?” and I, looking up at the gulls swaying over the water, answer the only way I can – “Yes my love, we had it all”
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