When We Were Young and Beautiful

May 17, 2025, 3:30 p.m.
I have escaped to Toronto for a few days to visit my kin. It took some engineering to leave home and to make sure all of Frank's needs are met. But I'm confident that everything will work out. But still there is an ever-present, disquieting anxiety. All will be well, I say. All will be well.

I am here in another place, almost another world, where no-one is dying, doing simple things with my child, her husband and their child, my beautiful grandson. I them love so very much. We eat good food. My son-in-law is a great cook. My daughter and I drink coffee on the porch, take walks along the laneway, through the neighbourhood. I cuddle on the couch with A, read him stories, give soft kisses on the forehead freely. We share warm hugs and lots of laughter. I love you. I've missed you so much.

Spring in the city is not a distant memory; it's a full body, visceral experience. So many memories from 40 years ago. Queen Street, Grace Street, Indian Trail, Barton Avenue. This time, though, I walk softly, slowly through this city. I pay attention. I say good morning to strangers and pop into the local library to look at books. I rest on a park bench and watch the dog walker with their pack of hounds. These are things I didn't do back then. But somehow the sights and sounds and smells of this place have stayed with me all these years.

My daughter teaches this morning. She takes A to daycare, says she wants me to have a full day to myself without any care-giving. She is so kind and thoughtful, full of love and affection and heart-centered compassion. I make coffee and sit on the porch, wrapped in a blanket and listen to the sounds of people on their way to work. Someone sneezes across the road. Bless you, I say quietly. I read my book, have a second cup of coffee, lay down for a nap in her bed which faces the giant, swaying trees in the large, city cemetery that borders the back of the house.

I decide to go for a walk just before lunch. I will stop by the Italian bakery on the way home. I walk by a brick house with a long porch, a lush lilac bush outside. Someone plays the piano inside. I hear small children playing in the back yard and it makes my heart sing. Red cardinals flit about the black locust trees, unafraid, bold. Little majestic creatures of scarlet, almost magenta depending on the light. A motorcycle blasts too fast through the streets. A memory of S, back in 1987, exclaiming loudly at the fast motorcyclists as they roared past our apartment on Spadina Avenue: The street is not a goddamn racetrack, asshole! His liquid-cooled, two-stroke Yamaha RD350 always woke the neighbours as he left for work each morning. We used to tear about these very streets after midnight on his old motorcycle, dodging street car tracks, stopping at The Cameron House for last call and ending at Fran's, the all-night diner on College Street, for coffee and blueberry pancakes at 3 a.m. I laugh at this now. We were so young and beautiful back then. And probably foolish, too.

The city is full of the smells of domesticity. The aroma of garlic, Jamaican patties, fresh mango piled high at the corner store. The smells of life. Of people living their lives next to each other. I wave to the old woman sitting inside her glassed-in front porch as I walk to the bakery. A little white dog is on her lap. She smiles and waves back. When I walk past again with a bag full of bread and cheese, she is gone, her chair empty. Perhaps she sleeps for an hour in the afternoon.

The cool shade of the morning gives way to the scorching, noon-time city sun. I return to the porch with some lunch and call Frank. You OK? I ask. Yes, yes, of course, my darling. But breakfast wasn't the same without you. The porridge wasn't as good either. I smile and tell him about my morning, of all the memories of living here. I feel far away from his needs, from his chat, from the way he makes me laugh so easily. I am far away from the routine of medication, from medical appointments, from the river, the quiet, the night sounds of owls and singing spring frogs. Suddenly I am very tired. We say goodbye and I pull down the shade that fills the entire length of the porch. I lay down on the painted, gray wooden floor. The mulberry bush dances with shadows across the blind and I am cocooned from the street.

I hear a neighbour talking to her dog. A car door slams. Someone says fuck. Sirens screech in the distance along Rogers Roger. I stretch my body out and let go into the moment. No time, no past, no future planning, nothing to do, no alarms, no lists, no visits. Just now. This moment. My body sinks softly along the hard, wooden porch floor. Tender, softly, my heart opens wider. Inhale, exhale. A plane flies overhead. I close my eyes. Here is where I am.

May 20, 2025, 7:30 a.m.
I will set up a tent for you at the bottom of the garden, with a dirt floor, a chopping block from the felled apple tree, and a small, sharp axe. I will buy a tiny woodstove, a camp-bed, a tin cup and plate. I will gift you with a handwoven blanket, some home-made insect repellent, and a small dog. I will visit you each night and we will watch fire flies dance at midnight. And all will be well. All will be well.