Here without Sarah, some days are so bad that it is all I can do to wake up, get up, and, if I have to, speak.
So going to do groceries was extremely challenging because I wanted to get through the store without coming into contact with a single human being, which is, of course, impossible.
On my way to the store, the speeding cars made me want to pull my hair out. Oom zoom zoom they roared, careening through school zones, past crowded streetcars and on through amber-red stoplights, oblivious of children, slow-moving pets and all other vehicles. The engine noises rattled my brain. By the time I pulled into the parking lot I had a headache.
In the store, I found myself glaring back (yes, I checked, and she really was glaring at other people) at a sample giver (what is their official title? I don’t know); frustrated with the interfering man in the coffee aisle whose bean grinding took longer than Steve Martin’s in Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid; annoyed with the woman standing behind me at the check-out counter who was, in my head, rushing to put her things onto the belt; irritated with the man ahead of me for looking so carefree, and absolutely grrrrrrry with the young check-out woman because she was not paying any attention to what she was supposed to be doing.
So ticked with her was I that I intended to ask her whether she really disliked her job or was she merely having a bad day.
But then something happened.
She picked up my first items – three bundles of flowers I had bought for the book club dinner, holding each of them to her nose, closing her eyes and smiling rapturously. When she opened her eyes, she looked at me and beamed. “I love flowers,” she said.
I smiled back at her. “I can tell. Perhaps you would enjoy being a florist.”
She told me how she wished the store manager would transfer her to the flower section, and then she explained that she had grown up in Turkey, and described her grandmother’s garden there. “It was filled with the same kinds of flowers you chose,” she said. “It was so beautiful.”
I asked her if she missed Turkey, and she said that yes, she did. And then I asked her if she liked living in Toronto. She said that her parents love living here and that she does, too, but maybe someday she would go back.
“Maybe you’ll meet a man who will take you back,” I said, and she could tell I was half-teasing.
I then talked about the students I have taught who are from Turkey. I laughed and said that the women were lovely – exceptionally warm and hard-working – but oh, the men – they had trouble adjusting to a woman telling them how to do anything.
The check-out girl laughed out loud.
“They all come around,” I said. “You know, I think they are secretly looking for a mother.”
She laughed louder. “I think you’re right,” she said.
On my way home, I was annoyed all over again with the occupants of two cars who seemed to be having a drag race down Gerrard. But when I pulled up behind them and saw them chattering and laughing, my anger evaporated.
Losing Sarah is the hardest thing I have ever done. Many people in my life have died or disappeared (which is essentially the same thing), but nothing, except Don’s death and the loss of my mum, comes even minutely close to this, and Sarah’s death looms largest of all – not only because she died so recently and so young, but because the brightest light in my life has gone, and will forever stay, out. There will be no more phone calls, bingo games, cottage trips, or swims in the pond; no more sitting on the front porch making fun of people (gotcha!) and no more plans.
So when I see a sweet young woman with painted fingernails and a great hair style close her eyes and smell the little daisies, I remember my young daughter who is gone and, as unsparingly sad as this is, I also remember that somewhere this check-out girl has a mother who loves her, and a little part of me feels grateful and strangely relieved.
