In the snow
Snow makes me deliriously happy. There's something miraculous about these white crystalline particles, which, when unhurried by the wind, leisurely suspend in the air until such time they see fit to grace the ground. One might be two years more than twenty-four, and still be surprised by the beauty of life and continual youth of time, be enchanted by how snow glitters, and be amused by how one's tropical eyelashes are useless in such weather.
When I got on the bus, the old woman gestured that I sit across the aisle from her, where three full plastic bags had been tucked under the seat. "Those are mine," she said. "Marché Jean-Talon." In one wave of her hand and a stifled laugh she explained the ridiculous situation of having done her shopping on a day that was snowing like crazy, and having to make her way home with full bags of shopping. "Three cauliflowers, same price as one." Yet another gesture of her hand, indicating her weakness for good bargains. "I'm now 81 years old, but I'm a good housekeeper, a good cook."
I have no recollection of what I said, perhaps some kind of conversation filler. Several minutes passed. Then, to my surprise, she got up and walked across the aisle to me. "Do you live near here?" "Not far," I said. She proceeded to give me her address, the exact street corner, the apartment number. "Come and see me, I can cook you a nice dinner. I am from Europe you know. I have been living here for 56 years. I am 81 years old and I am alone." Her breath had a tinge of drink ... rum? In slow, laboured speech, she gave me a summary of her life in Montreal, how her mother died in her arms, how her husband was perturbed by her insistence to care for her mother until she passed on.
"Or call me. Would you like to write my number down?"
"No, I can remember numbers well."
She gave me her phone number. I recited it back to her.
"What's your name?"
I told her. She recited my name back to me.
"Call me, I am alone. Have a good day."
I watched her collect her bags and cautiously got off the bus. I turned around and watched her crossed the street through the foggy window. Then I looked at other passengers in the bus, none of whom seemed to have noticed anything out of the ordinary. I wonder if she knew that I would never find the courage to pick up the phone. But a letter, maybe. Yes, perhaps a letter.
Posted by sniffles at December 10, 2003 04:58 PM