Bags

My mother packs for England.
Only a few days ago she returned from the North, where my aunt now lives on what used to be Grannie's land, near Hay River. Mum brought back things for us, my sister, my cousin, and I. Loads of stuff that was hers, Grannie's I mean. Nicky and Pam didn't keep much, some pictures, a painting, a cigarette case from Spain. I have acquired a copper double-boiler, and an enormous collection of scarves. One with Roman landmarks pictured and labeled on green silk, another in gold, with Egyptian-looking symbols, yet another depicting a veritable African safari. I love her for keeping these. Mum showed me a picture of Grannie when she was sixteen. She is wearing her uniform from the Women's Land Army. At sixteen she was working on farms with strangers, doing the abandoned work of soldiers. She actually had tea with the Queen, before she was Queen, she told her how cider was made. When my mother was sixteen she was sent off to study in England, after spending her childhood moving from place to place, attending a new school every year or two. When I was sixteen I had the same good friends I'd had since elementary. I had braces, good manners, a sense of humour, very little grace, and no concept of how to grasp and claw and run at life.
My mother will be in England longer than I will be here, we won't see each other again until Christmas probably. She is packing very logically, if indecisively. She has categorized piles of clothing on her bed across which I am sprawled, disturbing everything. Her room is pale yellow walls, sun through white cotton curtains, shiny hardwood floors, and nice things arranged tidily on dressers. I have come home from work earlier than expected and am giddy about this. It's bright out, the golden hour. Mum's hair; chin-length, blond highlights, is lit like a halo by the window behind her and she is flitting around the room like a hummingbird - she does this - trying to decide what to wear on the plane.
- What do you think of the teal?
- My favourite so far. Looks classy. First class-y.
- Maybe they'll bump me up. But it's tight here, see? Nine hours of this?
- But there's buttons. On the back, you could loosen it.
- I suppose. Should I bring this skirt do you think? Oh and before I forget, what should I bring back for you?
- Good tea. And scarves!
- The problem is the shoes- could you stop rolling around on my things please?
I'm getting carried away because I am excited about tea and scarves. And about the sun in my drink, casting bottle-green shapes on the wall. And about my mother's suitcases and belongings spread out in an otherwise calm room, like a child I am excited by this. By the break from routine, the stir of her departure.
- What happened to the teal?
- I know but I thought maybe... The red, it's nice, summery but still nice right? You don't like it?
- I don't think it looks as nice with the dress pants, and it's funny shaped, in the front, here.
- No it isn't. Besides I can wear the white cardigan over it.
- True...
Across the hall, my room is pale blue, old lace curtains, two belugas swimming in turquoise water on the light switch cover, and various items ranging from very little to very great importance strewn about haphazardly, in makeshift containers and cluttered piles. Paycheck stubs and insurance papers mingle with bits of string, foil wrappers from rolls of film, and hair products. Clothes are thrown across stuffed animals and boxes of old books and school projects litter the closet. Camera equipment is jumbled in a laundry basket by the dresser. On a shelf behind several beanie babies there is a pile of rarely worn shoes, high heels mostly, and I take down a pair I got for high school graduation.
- Look.
- When did you get that dress? It's very pretty.
- A while back. I feel like I could wear it to a wedding. Someone should get married. Are you sure about that yellow with black?
- Oh that's right you don't like that. The bumblebee effect.
She looks down at the shirt in question and flicks away a piece of lint, thinking of things to be done, turning briskly back to her bedroom, sighing at the small mess I've made of her progress.

When I was little I wanted lullabies. Around the age of two, I'm told, I was especially demanding. My mother, while a great appreciator of music, is not the type to sing throughout the day, to hum or whistle, to entertain melodies in her head instead of more productive thoughts, and so my pleas caught her off guard to some extent and she would sing the first thing that came to mind. This was in most cases one or all of the following:
-Michael Row Your Boat Ashore
-Row Row Row Your Boat
-Oh Canada
But my very favourite, as Mum tells it, was Bags. I'm not sure of the actual title, but I called it Bags and I knew the lyrics, and she says I would mouth the words along with her. I would say: "Sing Bags, Mummy, sing Bags!" and she would sing:
"Got no bags or baggage to slow me down,
I'm a-runnin' so fast my feet ain't touching the ground,
Travelin' light, travelin' light,
Oh I just can't wait to be with my baby tonight."
And I would watch her with big eyes and shape the words silently with my lips while she sang.

I'm matching Grannie's scarves to dresses I have never had occasion to wear, and each time I come out of my room newly adorned I say "Look!"
- Yes, lovely.
She is packing Canada-themed gifts for the family in England. Maple candies, a red and white onesie for the new baby.
I am mainly twirling.
- Look!
She is wrapping Grannie's jewelery in tissue, to bring to Aunty Rona.
I am wearing a sunhat I found in the hall closet, floppy wide-brim straw variety, with a ribbon, because I think there are people who wear these regularly.
- You can keep that.
- Ha!
She is tucking her necklace under the collar of her teal shirt, smoothing her hair.
I am pulling the curtains out from behind the couch and spilling them over the cushions, crawling under them like a cape and looking out the window at nothing.
- Look Mum!
- I'll have to pay extra for this baggage I suppose- another one I haven't seen! How many dresses do you have exactly?
She is folding, sorting, arranging. She is moving forward every instant and I want her to sing Bags so I can watch her and learn it again but I don't want her to think I'm being cute.
When the sun sets I am lying on the kitchen floor, yawning and stretching and humming. The last of the light is flickering, reflecting gold on the tiles around me where I float and she rows swiftly by me, cleaning up after me, sighing at me again, lovingly maybe, row row rowing by. She is glorious and I feel like a piece of furniture. I'm thinking with a certainty I don't quite deserve that she doesn't know any other way to be. I am thinking that my mother does not know, maybe once knew, but has forgotten and in any case does not need to know, how to pull up the anchor and drift aimlessly on the surface, with great vast unsolvable depths below her, waiting for something she's never seen and isn't sure exists, waiting for someone to ask her something.

thoughts from a bus ride

i. rain in june

raindrops falling on the windshield black
steady steady ever steady
but suddenly
it stops, for one long second
while we zoom under an unseen bridge.
a tightrope of silence within a canyon of white noise, falling
gently gently ever gently.

ii. it's time to face the music, and dance

it's time to face the music, and dance
sweet steps over neglected dreams
crooked smile with missing teeth
nothing left but one lonely embrace
it's time to face the music, and dance

I want to bald gracefully

A colorful infomercial once told me that all men should bald gracefully. It is my desire to be a gracefully balding man. When co-workers discuss my hair behind my back, I want them to say "that David fellow, he balds gracefully". Within the first two dates, I want her to make a comment about my neatly-trimmed, closed-cropped hairstyle. (Extra points if all her girlfriends know as well!) I want to be my barber's magnum opus. I want strangers to ask and to touch my hair. I want my grandmother to boast about her grandchild's hair while she gossips while playing mahjong. I want for the waitresses to be able to say "that handsome man over there ordered rum and cokes for the both of you" while I smile and wave nonchalantly from across the bar. When I'm rollerblading with my dog, I want other rollerblading dog owners to talk to me. I want people to notice my defined cheekbones that has been enhanced by my hairstyle. I want poorly-balding men to tap me on the shoulder while I'm on the 107 and give me a thumbs up while I am in the process of removing my headphones, and I want them to envy me while they do it. I want my hair to remain perfect after I remove my tuque. I want a lawyer to lose his hairpiece as I'm walking by so that I can glance sideways at him and smile with pity. I want to be able to tuck my t-shirt into my jeans and still look the part of Upper Management. I want to be my parents pride, their joy. If only I could bald gracefully, I would be a happy man.

Cab Driver

I was talking to a cab driver to pass the awkward silence between Quebecois radio commercials. He spoke with an almost unintelligible accent so we started veering towards a Jacob Two-Two style dialog. When I asked him whether he had lived in the Saguenay all of his life, he thought that I asked him whether he had ever drove his clients outside of the region. He then explained a long-winded story about how an elderly couple, this one time, took a 2-hour cab ride to Quebec City. He kept glancing over, nodding and muttering "c'est vrai, c'est vrai" like I didn't believe a word he was saying. After I realized that he was answering a totally different question, to avoid embarrassment for the both of us, I asked him how many bags they brought with them.