Ink spots

My husband and I walk behind the COOP supermarket to the little park where I used to take our son almost every day since he was a baby.

"That’s a fish pond. See the goldfish swimming?" Only now you can’t see the pond. The owner put a wooden fence around it.

"Look at the roses, darling. They’re yellow and Mmmm, they smell good." There are fewer blooms.

"Be careful on the carousel." It has disappeared. Too many spills and tears,and probably too many complaints.

"Ssshhh or the squirrel won’t show up." The tree is still there but my husband and I don’t wait nor are we still.

We walk towards the big park. I liked that route because you got 2 parks in one. The Chinese in me.

A short half-block and we go down a slope. I link my arm into Olivier’s.

I see Samuel at 4, his head turning, his finger pointing at the wading pool, his little face looking up at me, a big smile. Sun shining, kids shouting, water splashing, pool painted blue.  Smell of suntan lotion, barbecued sausages, grilled peppers .Only a few adults today and hardly any children. The pool is no longer blue but the cold gray of cement. They moved the swings; they hang forlorn and empty. The slide is a lonely silver hill in the sun. I hear only echoes of "Look at me, Mom!"

I see a mirror in the hallway of our home. Samuel hugs me. He’s 15, taller than me by a good 3 inches. He  looks at our reflection in the mirror. He smiles, hugs me,  "Ma petite maman."  I  rest my face against his shoulder, smell his perfume, feel his broad back against my fingers.

Flashes. Pictures. Memories, they’re called. Because they are past. Gone.

I press my husband’s arm.  He stops, looks at me, and holds me close.