Sitting In A Nest Of Bad Men

Pete’s a far better photographer than I am, so when I took a pile of pictures from the spot above the river I wasn’t surprised when I didn’t get the city in the frame. Ah well. My city, shrouded in fog, disappears before one’s very eyes. The city I loved is gone, anyway, a victim of corporate greed, and my first clue that I should leave was when the artists moved away. I held on, and my city disappeared. For the last few months, it’s been on my mind that this was the place Dad was young, and where life once held such promise.

Ah, a person can believe in the soul of a place even as the lies pile up – not in New Brunswick, but in some places, yeah. Yesterday, Pete and I drove around in circles on Route 9 until we found the right Shore road to take us to the Jackson Mills Mall. We wanted a giant food processor as our present to each other. Christmas has been exhausting physically and emotionally; fortunately, the one song guaranteed to make me burst into tears played on the PA system at Le Grand Chef. Note: smart shoppers give you plenty of room to browse when you’re a soggy mess.

Years ago, the way I coped with losing Morgan was to act as if he’d died, and now he’s engaged to be married to someone I’ve always liked. It’s as if my crystal ball exploded. Pete and I got a really great deal on the 12-cup Kitchenaid.

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