The derelict building echoes, where the rodents doth entwine. You can make out the words; “Marjean’s Corner” on the broken, filthy sign. It’s abandoned in the type of shadows, that Godfrey would come to know, as his long years on the road began to show.
He met the ragged old woman outside, the old Vancouver Bus Depot. In my happy, rambling youth she told him, I vowed that I would travel, long as legs could pedal and thumb could hitch a ride. Now at Marjean’s Corner, I shelter when I can from the cold streets outside.
The old woman spoke to Godfrey, of the things once sold there by Marjean. Kleenex, candy bars, tawdry magazines. And vivid in my mind she recalled, the ugly souvenirs. Plastic totems, faded postcards, model of toy bus, wine-gums and Potato chips Marjean sold to us.
Whatever, Godfrey asked her softly, became of Marjean? Was Marjean the name of one person or two? But the ragged woman’s memory had faded away , back in time to when the treasures of Marjean’s Corner were out on display.
Godfrey sat back in thought, as she stood to go. He watched her slowly disappear into the low growling, and grumble of a city winter dawn. And was then Godfrey realized, he had been talking to the ghost of Marjean’s Corner all along….