| Mrs Spencer In a ritualistic stroll I walk under the huge arching oak trees of my youth in Oxford Park to visit Mrs Spencer. I press the illuminated bell to her third-story apartment. A buzzer unlocks the door & peering up I quickly explain- I’m Mark. You used to be my late mom’s best friend The elderly lady shakes her head. Pauses. I’m working hard to connect this person with the woman from my past… I continue; pleading: I have a brother Bob & a sister Shirley. Your son is Al. I used to live at 5561… ‘Oh, yeah’, she finally acknowledges in a glimmer of hope. Would you mind if I come up so we can have a talk for a few minutes like we usually do when I visit Montreal? I’ve travelled from Australia. Her head confused, nodding, she says- ‘I’m not interested. I’m in the middle of something’. The door slamming on another remnant of my childhood. ©George Anderson 2008 |
| Vermin In the basement he sifts ashes from the furnace the large metal tray rocking back and forth dust rising like a grimy sweat a dark wet body lies silent, inert, its soft malleable bones twisted in its improvised narrative of sleep, it grins wryly he shovels the coal ash into steel garbage buckets & hauls them 2 at a time down the grey March alleyway the sleet falling in wide sheets from the make-shift nest, the rat edges backwards up the pipe & squeezes thru the sewer grate to sniff at the air alert to the danger The man hears a rustle, almost imperceptible he springs to action, his body knows what to do he grabs the baseball bat and as the rat darts from the hole he lunges, lurches wildly forward sweeping swinging hitting smashing smashing again & again crushing the elusive creature, its face eventually pulverized 200 feet away outside Freestone Tires its red furry head embedded into the concrete my dad breathing in wild gulps, hugely triumphant much like an ice hockey player in stick victory mode ©George Anderson 2008 |