Bud.
And there he was, far out on the lake
in the soft morning light,
approaching slowly.
I had had time to follow my newly cleared
trail down to the canoe,
flip it over,
haul it into the water,
climb in, and paddle over the
still green water toward him.
When I was within about fifty feet,
I wondered what on earth I looked like.
I turned, dipped lake water over my face,
rearranged my hair elastic, and turned back.
He smiled.
"You did it.”
"You look great."
"I am so much in love with you.”
When I think of that final canoe trip
with Wren,
Wren and Bud and me,
in some ways it feels like last year,
in some ways like someone else’s life
altogether.
All of the markers in life since then,
large and small –
births, deaths, weddings,
funerals, reunions, openings,
graduations, successes, failures –
make me see that time has passed.
All of the interests pursued,
the responsibilities taken,
the friendships forged,
all adding up to the making of a life.
For the most part, a happy life.
And of course, too, throw in
the occasional earth-shattering,
life-changing event.
*
August, 2014
(One month earlier)
As I sliced veggies for a stir-fry,
I saw Bud drive in,
get out of the truck, amble slowly
toward the house
with something bulky.
He came in the kitchen door,
his bare brown arms
dropping an elastic tied bundle
on the counter beside me.
“Mail.”
I wiped my hands,
and removing the elastic,
sorted through the flyers, internet ads,
newsletters.
At the bottom of the pile, a long slim
envelope,
somewhat damp from being pressed
against the bottom of
a leaky rural mailbox.
“This one’s had a rough ride.”
“It’s for you, Mr. B. Ryder.”
Bud took it, looking at it quizzically.
He read it, facing toward the large
south-facing window,
his back to me.
He was so still, the only movement as
he shifted his weight from one leg
to the other.
He turned, handing me the letter.
“You might want to read this.”
August 3, 2014
Dear Mr. Ryder,
I am writing to you with regard to my mother,
who I think was an old friend of yours.
I am the daughter of Wren Sutherland,
(formerly Wren Millais).
I’m sorry to let you know that she died
of breast cancer
two weeks ago.
It was quite quick. She had been well for a
couple of years after being in remission,
but the cancer returned.
Before she died, my mother wanted me
to know certain things from her past.
Let me preface this by saying that
I have a good relationship with my father,
and can’t imagine being
without him right now.
But the truth is that my mother believes
that you are in fact my biological father.
I was born May 19, 1975,
and although she was married
to my dad at that time, she told me that
the timing was such that she believes
that she was pregnant
before having any relations with
my father.
I understand that, according to my mother,
you are married to Diana Becquet.
If this is something that you wish to keep
private,
I totally understand and will do nothing
to complicate things for you.
Having said that, I would love to meet
you both.
My mother said that the last time
you saw each other had been difficult.
But I can tell from the way she spoke
that she loved you both.
I will be in Ontario the last week in August
with my little girl, Elle.
She is seven, and only knows that there are
people in Ontario who she is related to.
Again, if this is too difficult, I understand.
I will include my contact information below.
Many thanks,
Meg Sutherland
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