LITMIR.BIZ

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a big lot, huh! And all of the peace, the privacy. I just love it here. I knew from the second I saw this house we had to have it. My husband Alex wasn’t so sure about it, but once I saw it, the deal was sealed.’

       ‘Yes. Bristol Lane is a quiet street. Kind of lonely sometimes, but overall, I like the peace. And your house is gorgeous.’

       ‘Oh, silly me. I’m sure you’re probably busy. But here’s a pie I made for you. I hope you like rhubarb. My husband says no one likes rhubarb pie, but I beg to differ.’

       My hands literally clapped together. ‘Oh my, that’s my favourite. These old hands are too tired to bake many pies these days. Thank you. This is so lovely. Will you come in for tea?’ I shakily took the pie from her, revelling in the perfect golden crust. It had been so long since I’d had a rhubarb pie. I could hardly believe my good fortune. I didn’t even think anyone made rhubarb pie these days. It was like a blast from the past calling me home, and I didn’t hesitate to take up the offer.

       I knew the girl was special from the first day she moved in. There was no denying it.

       Of course, she’s not a girl. She’s a woman. Still, at my age, everyone under seventy seems like a girl. Age is all about perspective, and mine’s become quite a distant perspective these days.

       ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly. My husband’s at work today, and I have some cleaning to get done. But definitely soon, okay?’

       ‘Yes, dear. That would be great. Stop back anytime. Congratulations,’ I said, and Jane was gone, her lean legs carrying her down my porch steps and across the yard to her house, the skip in her step matching her bubbly personality.

       I smiled, feeling I now had the best neighbours in the world, even if she did rush off pretty quickly. It was so thoughtful of her to bring by a pie, to spend time with an old woman like me, even if it was just a few minutes. I wished for a moment she would’ve stayed longer, but I didn’t want to cause trouble, not on our first meeting. So I let it go, thinking about how great it would be to have someone to talk to, wondering why I’d gotten goose bumps at the sight of her walking away.

      * * *

      As often happens, life for the young gets overrun by daily routines and to-do lists and the pressing matters of youth. She hasn’t been back since that first day. The rhubarb pie is long gone, and it saddens me a little bit. I had high hopes for us back then. I’d imagined all of the conversations, the lunches, the teas we’d share. I’d imagined what it would be like after all these years to have, dare I hope, a friend of sorts. But dreams don’t always go as planned, do they? And sometimes our biggest hopes are shattered by reality.

      In truth, 312 Bristol Lane hasn’t quite turned out like I’d imagined at all. There has been little interaction for the past few months except for a few small encounters – and arguably, even they were a bit off-kilter.

      On Sunday, I was making my glorious trek in my good old station wagon to Mark’s Mart for a few supplies. Jane had been cleaning the windows outside the house, and she gazed at the street from the top of her ladder. I smiled and tooted the horn. She didn’t wave, staring as if in another world.

      I suppose she’d just been busy. That had to be it.

      Regardless, there have been no visits, no more pies. I tell myself I can’t be annoyed, though. Life at that age is blissfully full. There will be plenty of time for tea drinking and porch sitting with elderly ladies and other generally dull tasks. Right now, she’s got other priorities.

      I do worry. There’ve been subtle changes, small happenings, that have caused that nervous anxiety to resurge. Mostly, the anxiety is for them, the couple at 312 Bristol Lane.

      Fewer goodbye kisses on the porch step, less hand holding at breakfast. I’m sure I’m overanalysing. It’s not enough to worry just yet. It’s a subtle change – but a change nonetheless.

      Then again, maybe it’s all me. Maybe I’m imagining it. Perhaps these are just the musings of an overly bored woman. It’s no secret that I’ve got way too much time on my hands. Perhaps I need to find a hobby – but what? Knitting always did seem quite monotonous. Besides, these bones are too achy, too rickety, to be of any real use. And who would I knit for? Amos? I doubt the white Persian would want anything to do with a scratchy, crooked sweater I’d put together.

      Besides, it’s much more fun watching. I’ve become quite a good observer in my late age.

      It’s not all bad, either. Jane at 312 Bristol Lane still seems happy. She still smiles, skips around the house in a chipper fashion, saunters to the mailbox in her gorgeous sundresses, kicks back her feet as she leans on the front porch step.

      To most, she probably looks the same. To her husband, she probably looks the same.

      To me, though, I can see it, the shifting, the small clues that not all is well. Like a detective in waiting, I sit, pondering over the signs, wondering how they all fit together in the bigger picture that is her.

      The only question is: what can I do about it? What can this old lady in her rocking chair who can barely walk the twenty feet to the bathroom in time do about it?

      For now, all I can do is keep watching, keep waiting, and keep hoping she’ll come over. In truth, it would be good to feel a little needed.

       Chapter 3

      It’s Saturday, and they’re raking leaves together. It looks warm out, the picture-perfect day you see on cards or those made-for-television movies that make me seriously want to crawl outside of my skin.

      Not that love is a bad thing. But those movies where everything is perfect, the woman swooning over a dozen roses like some sickeningly debilitated puppet – those are the things that make me roll my eyes and shake my head, even when there’s nothing else on. Maybe it’s just me, though. Maybe I’ve just got a deeper understanding of life and love than most, especially the not-so-rosy moments. Maybe if life were a little bit more like a made-for-television movie, things wouldn’t be such a wreck right now. Sometimes predictability makes life happy.

      I digress, though. Because the point is, 312 Bristol Lane doesn’t look like one of those annoyingly sappy movies. The couple feels real to me. They feel genuine, even in the happy moments. I don’t begrudge them these moments.

      Jane and Alex keep raking leaves, right through my existential crisis over sappy movies and predictable plots. I refocus, studying them, looking at their subtle cues as I rock, Amos in my lap.

      Alex has got short sleeves on, the rake in his hand. Jane’s in a lightweight sweater, her hair up in a ponytail. She’s sitting on the steps, chatting away animatedly. I sort of want to open the window, to get some air and to hear what they’re talking about, but I think it would be a little obvious. Plus, I’d probably just get cold in a minute or two, and I don’t want to disturb Amos. He’s all cosy, purring gently. His feet are even moving as he dreams.

      The pile of leaves is getting bigger and bigger. Alex’s back is to me, but I can tell by his posture he’s relaxed, despite the work. She’s talking away. She talks with her hands. Did I used to be a hand talker when I had the energy? When I had someone to talk to?

      I can’t remember. So many things I can’t remember now, it makes me feel sad. How do those moments slip away? The little moments, the little details, are like fleeting feathers on the breeze. I so desperately try to cling to them, if for no other reason than to say I can, but in truth, I can’t. Time stomps forward, leaving our memories in the ashy dirt. We can’t hold on to everything, not all of the big things and especially not the little things. Sometimes the loss of the little things hurts worse.

      Now don’t go feeling sorry for yourself, you old coot, I think to myself. No need to get all down in the dumps. It won’t change anything

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