The bags are thrown willy-nilly onto the balcony. They’re too heavy for me to lift, let alone for a pair of octogenarians who were supposed to throw them to the corner, days ago. But tonight, the issue of ageing and its abasements, of how the elderly are left to fend for themselves, is secondary to the search for an heirloom pie plate and acorn-shaped candleholders.
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Grammie remembers the tragedies. Car crashes, heart attacks, and how her brother died. People wonder if he killed himself, but no one really says anything. It’s happening again. She calls 911. The police visit and she talks about a big party. She shuffles along. A big party where everyone will be. There, in the spaces in between.
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I walk through a small wooden archway to get to the labyrinth. On one of the posts the word “peace” is stamped in black letters. The labyrinth is intricate, carefully made, the pathways formed of irregularly shaped paving stones, the surfaces indented in places with what look to be the splayed imprints of a child’s fingers. Because the surface is uneven, I have to pay attention to the way my feet land so I don’t roll onto an ankle. I find this distracting. I want to stride along in my usual way, thoughtlessly, unconcerned by ankles or balance and briefly wonder if it’s common for labyrinth designers to make the earth unsettling.
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Slowly the camera pans down to earth, sweeping over vineyards and orchards, a rustic farmhouse, a tractor at the edge of a field. Then: a blur of colour, a yellow racing bike streaking down a winding road. The woman on the bike slows to bank around a swooping corner—there is a soft rubbery thrum—the camera cuts to her gloved hands squeezing the brakes. The angle cuts wide again, taking in another rider.
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A neighbour tells me a laser pointer scares the magpies away. A Buddhist friend confesses he uses a slingshot. A birder instructs me to addle the eggs. A quick shake or two will do the trick. The parents will continue to sit on the eggs, she assures me, but nothing will hatch. If that fails, string a dead magpie up in the yard. She hears it works like a charm.
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On bad days I can’t remember how to say cinnamon or ground meat or chocolate chips in French and no one understands. On bad days I am in a hurry and I’m frustrated and I just want everything to be easy like it is when you live in a place where asking when will it be available doesn’t require consulting a goddamn grammar book. On bad days I remember Mordecai and how he said it didn’t used to be this way.
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