Voyeur

Sitting under a pale blue sky watching as the world hovers in that magical, impossibly-possible, infinitely tiny, blink-in-the-eye-of-eternity moment where the past, present, and future all exist simultaneously in perfect harmony. A whispered breath of air stirs the lower branches of a spruce tree growing from a well-mulched bed of cedar. To the northeast, an old, single engine airplane flies lazy circles over what is often a jump zone for parachutists. A miles-long formation of Canadian geese are all but imperceptible black dots on the western sky. Snow white seagulls flutter about as they search for an afternoon snack.

Nostrils assailed by the acrid aroma of vehicle exhaust and burning leaves. It is too cool to be warm and too warm to be chilly. Sans jackets was for the hot-blooded young. A slightly pudgy, middle-aged brunette walks by, wearing a white ski jacket and polyester slacks that have escaped from the not-distant-enough past. A pair of flip-flops cling to her bare feet.

He sat with back against the beige bricks, legs crossed in what once was called “Indian style,” strumming his beat-up, black, flat top guitar as he sang folk ballads. A shock of jet-black hair struggled to escape from the confines of a gray watch cap. An open black guitar case, plastered with decals, sat at his feet. He seemed to have been rendered invisible and mute as a steady stream of cart-pushing shoppers rushed past him without seeing or hearing.

A cigarette lit and a cigarette smoked while a conservative talk show pushed to have a law passed that would require new immigrants to settle according to their job skills. He also thought it a good idea if immigrants were encouraged to leave Canada if they did not apply for citizenship as soon as they were legally able to do so.

A trio of females, too old to be called girls and too young to be called young women, strolled saucily down the sidewalk. Their hair was immaculately coiffed, their makeup as perfect as the skill levels of that age can manage, clothing carefully chosen, and attitudes in place. There was an intensity in their eyes that claimed they were hunting, not shopping.

There is a genuine smile on her face as she walks briskly down the tree and flower-lined, mulch-covered island. Her hair is gloriously gray; a testament to a person comfortable with their maturity, not the symbol of someone surrendering to the sometime-indignities of age. Her face is smooth, glowing, but not bereft of the lines that tell of a life lived. The ring finger of her left hand is barren of the shield of matrimony.

Dark, floral print dresses. Stout walking shoes and white socks. Purposeful stride. A black scarf carefully affixed to a tightly coiled bun. Brown winter coat zipped almost to the top. Face permanently set in a stern, serious expression. Life is for work and worship, not fun and frivolity. Some lives are celebrated and other lives are to be endured while awaiting a better day on the other side of the river.

A rail thin, old but not stooped, man stops by the singer, fumbles in his pocket and throws some coins in the case. The seat of his khaki slacks are droopy. The young man smiles at something said and offers the guitar to the older man. The fellow takes it, strums a few cords and hands it back to him before leaving. Suddenly, everyone passing by begins to feed the hungry, black case.

A door opens and shuts. A seat belt closes with a snap. The starter turns, the engine catches and the truck backs out of the parking place. The journey continues.