Dreams and ghosts. Memories and midnight. Was I lonely or alone?

————

A cheap night.

It was always the same thing. A dirty street, across from a muddy park, down from a polluted river.

She would sit on the bench at the transit stop with her brown bag poison. Sometimes she would hold it up to the sky, as an offering; sometimes she would just drink it.

After a few choked back slugs she would begin to sing. A throat warble, really, but she tried.

Songs about heaven and songs about horses.

One night as I was watching her party for one, it began to rain.

It rained hard. She wasn't phased.

Against sanity, I ran to her with an umbrella and a blanket.

I didn't think, I just threw it over her and sat next to her.

A dark, time saturated, deep crevassed face looked at me and I thought she was going to spew venom. I side slid to the far end of the bench.

She took a long, thick, deep drink from that wet, tearing brown bag, sputtered up some liquid mixed with the midnight's own tears on her lips and she began singing.

It was a snappy tune I didn't know but I found myself clapping along.

She offered me some bagged beverage. I declined.

She stood up, looked around and took a bow.

Her ragged clothing was layered with newspaper to keep warm.

She let my blanket fall to the wet muddy grass and she put down her drink.

She tipped the hat she wasn't wearing in my direction, waved to a non-existent audience and smiled a dirty, wrinkled, toothless, open-mouthed smile.

She then wandered towards the woods letting strips of newspaper fall behind her.

I ran to gather the papers to give then back. I figured she would need them. I bent down to pick them up and when I stood upright, I looked for her. I didn't see her. Anywhere.

I felt mildly sad and defeated. I had tried to help and even had a good time, but, she just left.

I picked up my blanket and umbrella and went home.

I still had the newspapers.

I tossed them on my table by the door and went to bed.

Morning. Birds. The rain had stopped.

For a second, I smiled, knowing I may see this interesting woman again. Or would I?

I trudged down my stairs.

The table by the front door had the newspapers. Dry.

I read the headline and article following it.

' Madeline Trechnya, divine, sultry, smoky songstress has died.

Madeline, 78, was found dead on an inner city bus bench.

Causes are unknown, but a final entry in her songbook reads, 'I will carry on. No crying, only song. For you there is joy and love, for me there is heaven above. Drink our drink, sing our song; we don't have long before the rain, before the black morning train'

The photo was of the woman from last night. The paper was from 1964.

Next to my table was a wet brown bag with an empty bottle in it.

By Shauna Woodbury

From: Canada