Old and a bit care worn was our apartment- such a huge change from the ranch house we called home for so long. I weighed the positives over all we let go of for retirement, and Godfrey put my random bits of paper to poem and song.
No more nasty slivers from the rough pantry floor, no nettles or blackberry bushes growing round my back door, no plowing the long road to the highway in snow, no more mud season, no more worry over fire or tornado…slowly we adapted to life in the city, and the luggage shop we named for Godfrey.
Garnet had his stamps and his geography studies. It was those years that I started quietly to write, we had view of a small park, and oft I watched the tugboats, and lights of the harbor from my window at night.
Across the small green space was a low, stone wall, remnant of ship’s dock, beyond the wall were city trees and two old disused canneries, derelict buildings of black brick and rock. Godfrey, on a visit dragged my turquoise chair, over where the radiator clicked and sighed, contented he was to look out the window, as his knees kept warm and his socks dried.
A bit more rain was sweeping in, as is common for February, I was putting the scones in the oven, when Godfrey called out, “Worzel, oh come see”!! He said, “look to the wall, wait for that chap with the brief-case to pass the tree, I did, watched and as the fellow walked,he disappeared into the stone wall completely.
“Now observe, noted Godfrey, the pair with their backs to us go through the wall, I suspect it is a lovely illusion , the way the wall and old stone buildings meet, the vagabond and I watched in awe, staring down at the wall of illusion as the drizzle turned to sleet.
We had tea and cinnamon scones, hot and buttered, when dark now and empty of people down on Wharf Street..He was no bludger, Godfrey always paid his way, discovered the mystery in the wall of illusion, long years ago now, it was St Valentine’s Day.
In summer time, foliage obscures the wall of illusion from my high window, and the tree I admired by our front door, Garnet after six years pointed out it was, “not one scraggly tree but four”. “My turquoise chair still squats, heavy and faded, waits for the story teller, socks hang to dry, scones still bake, hearts still go on, and oft I dream of his peaceful world, perhaps it is there, through the wall of illusion…