The Magnolia Tree

Standing at the railing of my fifth floor apartment balcony, I look
down on a grassy, private park with a paved walkway. I watch as a man
strolls along until he touches the gate. He turns. He walks back and
forth dozens of times between the iron gate and the steps that go up to
the street.

He huddles slightly in a black coat, grey hair sprouting from beneath a
cap. Smoke dances in the mid-September air; golden leaves on trees
catch the late afternoon sun. There's a faint murmur of traffic from
the A. Murray MacKay Bridge.

His wife used to walk with him, briskly, confidently. Sometimes she'd
stop until the man caught up to her, "It's that pipe, Harry. It's
sucking the life out of you."

Harry'd grumble between puffs. "Emily, it's my only enjoyment."

Then she'd laugh. "You old fool."

It's strange that she died first. It was her heart, they said. She ate
lots of vegetables and swam three times a week at the community centre
while he sat in the lobby and smoked with the caretaker and whoever
else was around. Occasionally the caretaker would have a bottle of
scotch and give old Harry a nip.

Then I see the skinny cat dash along behind the man, into a bed of red
and brown leaves. She doesn't seem to have an owner. No one knows where
she comes from. She just exists. It is the same pathetic cat that Emily
would stop and pat. Emily'd always have some type of treat for her.
She'd stand tall and call out, "Here, kitty. Here, kitty." Harry would
ignore the feline and continue to walk.

Beside the walk is a magnolia tree. It's the only one I've ever seen in
Nova Scotia. In the springtime, its white flowers take several days to
blossom, then last only one day after opening.

Emily loved its fragrance. She'd say, "Harry, this is absolutely
heaven. Just smell those flowers!"

I go back into my apartment and dress for a walk. It has been months
since I've gone out. Watching Harry and remembering Emily has given me
some incentive. And besides, I have some canned salmon for that cat.
Something like Emily would have done. But I won't make it a habit. Do
it too frequently and she won't be able to fend for herself.

Oprah Winfrey blurts from the television to believe in yourself. I turn
her off, saying, "Bah!" That's one good thing about living alone: if
you don't like what's on, you don't have to watch it.

I part the drapes and look down. Harry is gone. Crisp leaves are
tumbling along the paved walk and piling up along the fence.

Outside, I stand before the magnolia tree. It has only a few leaves
now, hanging on for dear life. The wind tugs at them. I shudder, one
hand in my pocket, the other one holding the saucer with the warmed
salmon. I actually had warmed the fish in the microwave. Cold has come
in from the Halifax Harbour with the afternoon tide.

I turn and there is Emily. "Isn't it lovely?" she asks, looking at the
tree. I nod, my eyes heating.

I feel a cat playing around feet, almost clawing. She's so thin. I set
the saucer down and she digs in hungrily. She looks cold. I guess it
wouldn't hurt to bring her in for the winter. I could take her for
walks. Emily would have liked that.

As I watch her eat, I light my pipe.