Watership Down

The other night, Ross and I were looking for your tree. The sun was setting deep in the sky, and a solitary bird was singing in it. I could not tell your tree apart from the other trees at first, but Ross found it as if by instinct. The branches were stretching out into the sky. There was something mystical about it all. The light fading, the bird guiding Ross it. The branches melting into a quiet sea of sky.

And, as we were leaving the park, a dozen rabbits came out of nowhere. Their silhouettes creeping across the grass. Moving slowly and carefully in the darkness. I felt as if we were living among the pages of Watership Down, watching the rabbits take refuge, in the safety of their own shadows.

It seemed fitting, for the night to end this way.

thornbury

Last night in my dreams, I was back at the cottage, that faced the Georgian Bay. And the quiet little cove that was footsteps away from the backyard.

I entered the front room, with the blue and red plaid couch, the pine bookshelf, with cottage books, and wooden ducks and pictures of a family I'd never met. Then there was a record player, and records that been neatly stacked away in the corner of the room. Next to it, magazines to leaf through. Some magazines were published long before I had been born.

I walked into the kitchen where I could see large undressed windows facing the bay. Mesmerizing waves rolling under pale blue clouds. Somewhere next to the cove , where the swans and the ducks rested, my children played. Collecting large irregular rocks. Some, shiny and salmon coloured. Others, dark like an overcast sky.

And there I was, walking slowly toward the brown L-shaped couch, with over-sized brown pillows. On the pale walls hung pictures of lakes and boats. On the opposite wall, hung a large mirror, with the bay looking at me. Waves cool and sparkling under the sun. I was happy to be there.

I could hear the sounds of play. My children laughing and talking. Arguing as well at times.
I could see their small backs facing me. My son's strawberry blond hair, looking flaxen in the sun. My daughter skipping and dancing, in her thin summer dress. My husband near by, his back to me as well. Standing there, tall, his dark hair under a red cap.

It was peaceful. Inspiring. I looked and everything I saw pulled me to it. I did not want to leave.

rain

It is raining outside. I am sitting on the couch next to Ella, who is sleepily sucking her thumb. The humidity from the rain seems to have found its way into the soft curls that frame her face. Ross has lined up his clones which he says can also be storm troopers. In the background, Star Wars is playing and from time to time, looks up to see what incredible dramas are unfolding.

I can't help but notice how the grape vine is tangling itself around the branches of our cedar. How much work it will be for poor Dave to prune.

The rain is coming down hard now and the leaves look as if they are shivering.

August morning

I still remember the tubes snaked into your arm. Purple bruises on thin, pale arms under the pale blue gown. You used to sport a permanent tan on your once, strong body. Then you became sick and you spent the last 7 months of your life imprisoned in a body that would not let you move or talk. It is getting closer to August the 4th, 4 days before my son's birthday. I really think you wanted to make it to his birthday, you hung on for as long as you could.

Then as I stepped out in the sunlight that morning, and pushed my son on his swing, you took your last breath.

The secret room

I love the smell of the old classroom in the university, where I am teaching this summer. It reminds me of an old church with worn wood floors, and large arched gaping windows. I can see the trees outside, casting their windy shadows across the windows.

I like to imagine what it would have been like, in the turn-of-the-century. Dresses brushing across the floor, feet scrambling to take a seat behind the small wood desks.

I saw a stairway today that seemed to take me to some secret place. At the top of the stairway was a short hall leading to a room hidden away in half-darkness. I wonder what it was used for. It seems to be not in use now by the trail of dust that stops behind the door. This room haunts me because of its darkness, and because it sits behind a locked door in an abandoned hallway. I wish I had the key to let myself in.

Barry Callaghan

This afternoon I can hear big band music blaring from the band shell. My daughter is sleeping, my son is sitting on the swing, his legs stretched out in front of him. My husband, sawing cupboard doors. The excruciating noise, competing with the big band music.

I don't know why I am thinking about Barry Callaghan's novel The Way the Angel Spreads her Wings. I have a preoccupation with trying to find it among my vast collection of dusty books. I haven't picked it up since I slotted it into its narrow spot on the bookshelf before my children were born. I haven't read it since the year I called Barry Callaghan, all that time ago when I was home from university for the summer.

I was a huge fan of his father's work, Morley Callaghan. I had studied his work in my Canadian Literature class in university. When I was home from school that summer, I harvested all of his books, re-read them, dusted them, and lined them up in order of publication. I simply couldn't get enough Morley Callaghan in my life. I had read every last book, and wished somehow that he could have been spared his untimely death so he could have kept on writing.

I managed to convince myself to call his son, who was a professor at the university where I studied. I managed to tell him how much I loved his father's work and how he was the best writer who ever lived. I know that Barry was enormously surprised to have a complete stranger call him up at home but he handled it graciously and talked openly about his relationship with his father.

I was unaware that Barry was a writer and that he had authored the aforementioned book as well as others. I felt embarrassed and naive, calling him up out of the blue and talking to him about his father, since I wasn't anything more than a worshiping fan. But he was charming, and managed to even indulge me a little. It was flattering to have Morley's son, Barry, tell me that if he had met me in person he probably would have wanted to run away with me. I thought his charm was delightful, or even quite thrilling to be honest. But I knew he had a special way with words, and that was why he wrote. So the next day I ran out to buy "The Way the Angel Spreads Her Wings" in curious anticipation, of Morley's son.

The Italian House

This is my favourite time of year. Grapes are starting to grow on their tangled vine across our pergola. The maple, elm and locust trees stand tall, in the shadows they have created for another. Our lilies are blooming, and our roses too, surrounded by their heady perfume. Our hostas are flowering, and our daisies too on their tall leafy stalks. The daisies stand in clusters of white, their petals touching, like soft embroidery on pillow cases.

My clothes hang out to dry on their clothes pegs, slowly taking in the fresh scent of summer air.

I like to watch birds bathing in the bird bath, white moths floating dreamily and lazily around us, my children playing and laughing barefoot in their playfort.

I think of books I'd like to read before the summer is out. Poetry books, short stories, and novels whose settings take us to a distant shore.

I think of my own writing. The stone house, the unread letter, the sun-baked rooms. The Italian house.

Hero

Last summer, was the first summer that my son and I spoke about death. It was his sixth summer and a local firefighter had died suddenly in our community. The death of his hero, made him need to understand what this mystery called death was truly about as he lay awake nights before the funeral, wondering how he died. . And he would leave me with two of the hardest questions I'd have to answer. Why do we have to die at all? I knew the next question would be, Why do you and dad have to die one day?

I tried to explain it in a way that a six year old would understand. I wanted my explanation to be truthful but not overwhelming. I tried to explain it in a way that would in time seem like a normal, natural process that would not keep him up night, after night, worrying about its inevitability. More important, I wanted him to know, that I wanted us to think about the moments and days and summers hopefully to come, that we would enjoy together.

The day of the firefighter's funeral, we were at the park, just beside the arena that would welcome hundreds of mourners. We saw the slow procession of cars. Ross stood in the grass watching as a sea of people surfaced from their cars and moved in rows up the hill to the arena where the flag hung, half-staff. My son grabbed my mother's hand as he saw the fire truck appear which carried his hero's casket. I remember my son standing there in his white ice-cream stained shirt, and shimmery silver and red shorts. He decided that moment he was going to go to the funeral and that my mom was going to accompany him. It happened so quickly that I did not have any time to react. I knew then, as he and my mother disappeared past the front doors, that he would be a little boy with new knowledge when he re-emerged. He would walk away with his own observations, and ideas about what death was, shaken and sombre. And as I'd tuck him into bed that night, I would listen to him, and hold him close to me. I'd wait for him to fall asleep, and I'd think of him growing a little older every day. Experiencing life and death. I'd whisper, Ross,you are my hero.