The Canoe
The garden spilled down the slope to the water’s edge. A Japanese garden oddly out of place in the less temperate Ottawa. Stone paths wound through shrubs. A gingko tree stretched up to one side, planted in memory of her son. A couple of little ponds, very little, graced the only flat spot of the property. A beautiful place, very peaceful.
The Mississippi River flowed gently between the garden and the town on its other bank. An old canoe rested upside down, its keel battered, the paint worn away.
Anne wandered down lured by the motion of the water. She tipped the canoe over and slid it down. The sun was barely visible on the horizon. Dawn yet to come. Sleep had not and Anne was looking for solace. She clambered into the canoe. Picking up the oar she pushed out into the current. The canoe rocked gently and floated slowly along. There was no need to row – just slide the oar into the water to redirect the canoe away from shore.
The bench seat was uncomfortable, so Anne slid down into the rounded interior of the vessel. The rhythm of the water was hypnotic. She felt herself drifting off, finally, to sleep.
The canoe bumped intermittently against the shore and then continued along guided by the river. No destination in mind.
The sun rose and the surface of the water glistened with its reflection. A breeze came up and the canoe moved a little faster. Anne slept on. Oblivious.
Another boat headed up the river against the current. The boater, a young man, from several miles down-river, was actively paddling. Thinking the canoe was empty he pulled up to check it out. Seeing the inert form in the bottom of the canoe he called out. No response. He reached over into the canoe and touched Anne on the shoulder. No response. He grabbed her shoulder and shook. Now she moaned. The fog of her sleep clung to her. She had been awake for so long and desperate to rest.
The young man spoke to her gently. “You are getting close to the rapids, ma-am. You need to turn around.” Anne stared at him blankly not seeming to understand his words. “Would you like me to tow you?” he said. Seeing the tie rope at the front of the canoe he reached for it and tied it to the bench of his boat. This was going to be a tough row he thought.
“I think I know who you are”, he said. “The lady with the gardens. I have seen you walking and remember the canoe at the bottom of your hill.” Anne nodded and slowly sat up. The sun was warming the air. She had not taken a sweater or a life jacket.
She acknowledged her saviour. No question had she hit the rapids still asleep the outcome would not have been good. Still disoriented she told him. “I think I can paddle now. Please go ahead with your morning row.” Anne picked up the oar as the young man released the canoe and headed back towards her garden. She sensed that he was going to “escort” her home and found that strangely reassuring. About the age that her son had been when he died. She felt like he had reached out and made her safe.
Pulling the canoe onto shore she waved him goodbye. A tear slid down her cheek.
The Shrine
Wiping the tears from her cheeks Anne slowly wandered up the stone steps that graced her gardens. Thyme ground cover spilled over from between the stones, soft lime green and, bruised, let off a pungent perfume. Anne shook her head trying to clear the foggy fallout from her stuporous sleep in the canoe. Maybe a green tea would help. She pushed open the side door to her bungalow, stepping directly into her kitchen. Turning on the element on her stove she filled the kettle. She scooped tea leaves into her Japanese tea pot and found a mug. As the tea steeped, she wandered into her studio. The light this early morning was soft and warming. She loved the luxury of working on her art in a natural light. Not that she had done much work for months now. The shock of the news of her son’s death had yet to dissipate – she had tried to sketch but there was no spark.
“Derek, oh, Derek.” He was going to come to visit her for her 65th birthday. She knew he was going to. And then he was dead. “I don’t believe you, Joy.” she had told her daughter-in-law. Joy had tried to ease her pain by telling her that Derek could never have made the trip. He was too ill. “No, he was going to come. I know it in my hear he was going to be here with me.”
Anne poured her tea and sat cross-legged in front of a small shrine.
The shrine had been put together piece by piece in the days after she learned of her son’s death. She had been inconsolable in her grief – keening, rocking, pacing, striking her body to share the pain she believed he must have suffered. Her daughter had come to the house to try and help. Nothing she could do or say would draw Anne out.
Looking at a copy of the last poem she had kept, that Derek had written, she moaned. The mug was too hot to hold and she set it down beside a photo of her son from before he left to go live in Dorset, before the birth of his two children, before he descended into despair and alcoholism. Long before he contracted pneumonia and died in hospital – just 24 hours after being admitted. His wife had turned him out of the house and he had lived on the streets before finally coming to terms with his drinking. He was getting better. He was getting better and he was going to visit her.
It seemed in a way that he had – just now, on the river. Anne felt a strange warmth, sense of peace. Her daughter had talked about Derek visiting her in her sleep, telling her that all would be well. He had brushed her hand, his hand calloused and rough just like it always was.
There was a presence – a wispy presence – in the room. Anne moved over to her easel, tea in hand. Setting it down on the window ledge she picked up her charcoal and began to sketch Derek’s face. His anger, his disappointment, were gone – just his poetic, intelligent presence. Anne sighed and slowly smiled as she touched his cheek.
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