Was I crying at her funeral?
As I should have been. As expected.
Car pulling into driveways. Old Volvo. Never worked.
House, fully detached on Brookside. Not far from the train tracks.
At night, in summer, still light, I would be out, watching as she came home.
Good evening, my little boy, she would say.
Tall, beautiful, rigid with briefcase.
Ahead of her time.
Did she know, even then, that she would be leaving?
Long days. Yelling matches. Threats. What happened to them?
Me, on the stairs, terrified as she said she would take us away.
I did not want to go to Calgary.
Could I have, should I have, known that the sky would fall? That it was almost all over.
End moments I recollect. She, in blue, imposing, at street corner.
Me on my Big Wheel. Smiling.
Looking back at me that one last time. Preserved in memory at the junction with Woodbine.
Did she wave?
Father with the tea towels in the am.
What is it?
Years later knowing it was suicide.
Why did you do it?
I was so young. Loved you so much.
Funny, decades sliding by, a kaleidoscope of time, remembering of all things...
You, my mother, laughing.
Outdoor international food court at the Exhibition.
We had Gyros from the Greek Pavilion.
Sister just two. Fighting for notice.
Day perfect. Spotless. Bright.
You leaned forward, Mama, and you touched my face.