humanity
I Wonder How People Live There
An encounter with a senior white lady inspired me to write this poem. I have encountered people like her in the past, but this one has become the tip of the iceberg.
“Living the dream?”
“I beg your pardon?”
And an unprecedented conversation ensued. My clock ticked on; sets of eyes watched. Lunch was getting cold up in the break room.Yet, here was dignity hoping to warm up.
“Oh, is that where you’re from? I wonder how people live there.” She must have been in her seventies, petite, blonde, pixie cut lady. Her wondrous green eyes ignited with curiosity; genuine, surprised. Never traveled. Not even half the country. Montreal was already a fulfilled vacay.
Beyond the Toronto skylines, beyond the diverse swarms; the fancy, the sports, the entertainment, the exhibitions, the suits, the coats, the blazers, the sneakers, the hoodies, the sweatpants, the briefcases, the purses, the backpacks, glitzes of both miseries and dreams — bustling around. The chariot of the west; life she has only known. Has she seen the horizon? What about the stars and the moon?
Something that should not have been a mystery. Not a wonder either. Let’s start with my family; they live a glorious life.
They’re busy caring for a vegetable garden. They raise chickens, feed stray cats and dogs, lounge in the vast front yard for snacks and coffee, go for walks around nature, bike, eat at malls during weekends —
My mother sings and watches her favourite noon-time show; a retired public school Teacher. My sister teaches kindergarten at her old Elementary school; fun yet handful. Her devotion has been immeasurable. My nine-year-old niece is in Fourth grade, a genius of her own right; her English vocabulary is way much better than mine when I was her age. She’s an artist. Her heart is seen in all her drawings and paintings. She’s beloved and well admired. They are the love of my life
“What about their home? What does it look like?”
“Happy, comfortable, loved. That’s what it feels like.”
“No, I know. But what does it look like? Is it the same as the houses here in Canada?”
“Not quite.”
“Well —? What is it then?”
I sighed. “They’re okay.”
She cackled, “I got it. Well, I have to go now. Have yourself a great day, darling. It was nice chatting with you.”
They own three houses, two of those stand in the same subdivision with strict security measures. Concrete, modern. The local carpenters had iron hands; sweet bungalow for my sister’s family, a two-storey house for everybody, including me — it has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a spacious living room, a nice kitchen. Outside is where the vegetable garden glamours with its rich beauty; the hen house is tucked away in the backyard.
The subdivision abounds with green and colourful sceneries of nature. It has its own park, a cafeteria, and a recreational centre. My contribution — not even a quarter of it all.
However, let me not forget our old house lurking in the city. Where tears, a little bit of drama, and a lot of laughter still linger around. Where my father took his last breath. Where I said a lot of goodbyes.
So yeah. That’s what their houses “look” like.
As for me? I’m renting a basement suite in Scarborough; my twenty-seventh “home” here in Canada in all my seventeen years of hopping around.
And at night — I dream. To be home. To feel home. To live, really live. Not to wonder and wander. To be loved, feel loved. That’s the greatest dream.
That’s the greatest dream of all.