Ottawa, Canada

I was tired, it was very hot outside, and soon to be my birthday … the last thing I wanted (despite my usual eagerness to travel) was an invite for a long bus ride to see the Royal Couple, Kate and Will, in Ottawa (a place I’d never been to before). I never was one to suffer much for royalty, but my daughter (far more princess-like than her mother) really, really, wanted to go! I could not possibly say no to her wish.

To my further surprise, my daughter next informed me Charles De Lint lived there, a creative writer of urban fantasy she herself introduced me to (not in person, of course). Chances were nill I’d meet him there (which proved true), but the hope was a big bonus.

After a night bus ride we arrived in a super-sun-drenched city (I had packed my entire suit case for colder Canadian weather).  I was impressed with the elegantly old and wondrously English parliament buildings resembling small castles.  One building has two gargoyles on top.  There’s a two-spired church, steeples glistening like huge upside down icicles, along with a giant spider sculpture uncommonly beautiful. Nearby is a small waterfall where one can see Quebec across the river.

300,000 visitors filled the streets the next day, almost doubling the population.  The searing sun seemed to melt everyone and everything down into one bronzed entity.  Light glittered off the buildings and on the lawn where we all stood … waiting, waiting, waiting … sweating and hot.  Bells kept chiming out the hours.

What we don’t do for our kids …

Feeling innovative, I gathered my scarf around my hat so it resembled a burqa-like tent flowing around me, a protection against the solar glare.  I stood out in the crowd, invisible as I was, and very soon, other people (even men) had spare clothing wrapped around their heads draping down their backs and shoulders.  We all were Arabian that day, with new understanding and deep appreciation for their traditional clothing.

Then came the time.  Suddenly, the roar of cannon fire … again and again, while big jets zoomed low overhead (reminding me instantly of a plane that crashed right into the audience at an airshow years ago).

The sound of bagpipes floated on the still, simmering air followed by an entourage of decorated police and black, armored motor cars. Elegant troops of horses came, manes and tails bouncing, naturally royal.  They proudly pulled dainty carriages.  Somebody noticed snipers (dressed in apropos black) standing on nearby roofs which gave everything an eerie overcast.

All this glorious pomp and glory, though, could not possibly compete with the first memory I had of that city.  I was on a jostling public bus going toward the hotel in the morning.  There, on the sidewalk racing alongside the street, I thought I saw someone I knew.  Except that person died fourteen months ago.  Nevertheless, there he was again, for one split second:

A First Nation Indian fellow about my age had materialized within the frame of the dusty bus window.  He had lovely copper skin which stood out immediately from the swirling blur of people.  I’m not sure anyone else on that bus even saw him – perhaps he was invisible to everyone but me.  Slender, with high cheekbones and an earring, he was roaring down the street – in a wheelchair!  His long hair was flowing like blown black feathers while his strong hands turned the big wheels of his chair.  Oddly, he seemed to have the stick of a candied sucker poking out the side of his lips – that’s when I thought for sure it must indeed be the man I knew, who would have done all those same things.

“Look!” I caught my daughter’s attention (this all happened in a flash). “Do you see that handsome Native in that wheelchair over there?  He’s Tom Soto’s doubleganger, like his angel!”

She looked, but already he was gone.  Disappeared, as if he’d easily slipped right back into heaven.  My daughter shook her head, disappointed she missed the Canadian version of our beloved friend (an Aztec Indian) of thirteen years.  The bus drove hastily on while the outdoor crowds changed our view like a turning of the Kaleidoscope.

“Why, I could swear it was Tom!”  I told her.

Smiling, my girl wisely replied, “Well, Mom, remember this is “De Lint-ville,” it’s enchanted.  Here anything is possible!  Maybe he really was Tom.”

Yes, I think so - kind of - it was love, and Tom’s memory.  I would never have noticed that stranger in such a crowd without my huge love for him.  Tom made his reappearance that day through my memory.