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Windchimes Wait For No Breeze
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I greet the blistering winter day with a chilling gasp of mist that floats to the sky. I shudder as I pull my coat tighter to my body and wait for the bus. It's a chilly autumn day in Vancouver, Canada and I am late as usual. It's almost ten!
The bus arrives promptly and on time almost chiding me indirectly for my tardiness.
I take a seat in my usual place in the back. And try to concentrate on the day's events and how I plan to see them unfold. Tired today. I was up late last night marking student papers. Why is it that this generation feels they can hand anything in late... and get away with it? A funny bunch this lot! The exuberance of youth feeling that you can conquer and not be conquered.
So much to remember... what to wear tomorrow... milk and toilet to buy... a letter to write to Paul Saunder's mother on her son's behavior... a card to send to my friend Malti for her birthday. I shuffle in my purse looking for a pen and paper to write down a note to myself... and I come across a worn tattered letter written ages ago and not sent. I hesitate and open the envelope.
It read...
If I was a stock broker, perhaps, I could have tossed the coin, and may have found solace in choosing "the favourite" in a bear and bull market. However, as you know this scenario transcends the boundaries of the political, economic, cultural and traditional spheres as we try to comprehend the challenges and consequences in a very real human world.
Friend, even though we've never met we both, being women and by virtue of womanhood share a commonality - even though at first glance it may seem as superfluous as the link joining the swan and duck. Me, of course, being the ugly duckling, much older, weathered, and lacking in the social graces and sophistication possessed by the magnanimous swan. Please don't mistake this analogy for envy. Accept it as honest admiration, albeit graced with a tinge of defeat.
When I first learned about you, I must admit, as I'm sure would be the expected reaction of most in my shoes, my first instinct was to shout. At who I am not certain.
You, my husband, me. I don't know.
"Why me?" I questioned.
I guess legendary philosophers, Aristotle and Socrates might've replied, "Why not?"
Now I look back at the face of my marriage to my husband the face blurs as the years pass. Until one day a stranger seems hidden behind the newspaper in the morning mist. Our breakfast conversation, which was initiated in the heady early years as a series of anecdotes on the day's events soured like milk, left out too long over time. The early breakfasts were punctuated by warm hugs and coffee, juicy kisses rivaling the fresh orange juice with dripping endearments of, "honey, mmmmpumpkin, and sweet pea thrown in every now and then. In between sheets - the phone off the hook.,
"Ten more minutes?
Peeling a pear. Layers of clothing flung carelessly on the floor.
Later. Tears stung by an onion. The stains of time also fade with memory and blame. To shift it on one and then the other may seem prudent justification at the moment or just another excuse. The fine grey streaks on my hair remind me time and tide wait for no one. I'm angered, at the moment, at us mortals who conjure up images of epic love stories, love and war, hand-me-down myths that don't stand a chance due to human fragility and fickleness.
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