Near and far

Jazz in the park.
A light breeze off the lake.
Sailboats anchored on the edge of the water.
Clinking and bobbing. Big ships in the harbour
slowly approaching the horn of the lift-bridge.
I love how it sounds when it blows.

In awe of this spring.
Its sudden swift shift from Canadian-cold-into-heat.
And despite today's stiffling humidity, I stay.
To talk to the craft venders; Lana is there.
Selling her leather belts.
Her style is simple. Classically understated.
The smell of good leather pervades.
Maybe not-quite-Italian. But still thick and strong.
Her tools strewn between piles of belts.
When she gathers them up, I notice her hands.
Somewhat stained and seemingly large,
even for her lean-tall frame.
But well suited to this kind of work.

Feeling the weight of each belt on my skin.
Liking the sound of brass buckles as they collide.
The belt-of-my-previous-purchase is good.
But this time, seeking a thinner one.
Warmer in tone. Just for jeans.

She remembers my name.
So we talk for awhile, but not about belts.
Her notion of place is appealing.
She asks, "Why did you move here?".
The question begs something familiar.
Any honest response demands (some) vulnerability.
But there are those who (from the very beginning)
have no walls to protect or knock down.
So I confide: the death of a parent carried me here.
When I speak, she swallows my eyes.
Pushing past veils, she nods when I (try to) disguise
my hidden look.

Her next question surprises me more.
With its intimate implications.
"Are you happy?", she asks.
Not a question one hears everyday.
And not in the habit of answering it
specifically to strangers-in-parks, I pause.
But with Lana's reciprocal offerings,
I have not been invaded.
Despite the table-of-belts in between us,
I sense something else in the air.
It lessens the fear-of-my-darkest-parts.

Lana explains that she lost her mother 3 years ago.
How, even now, the details of their relationship,
the small things that made theirs original, remain fresh
in her heart. The last-minute phone calls for recipes,
spontaneous visits at breakfast.
She concludes with a shrug, "How time flies".
Yet I catch that diminishing light in her eyes.
And although her ideas matter to me,
I note how she listens to words.
Hearing the sonorous sound of each one,
with her head slightly tipped to one side.
The genuine weight of her eyes unlevelling mine.
Her dead-accurate aim paired with a lightness-of-breath.

She pauses before each response.
As if searching the ground to collect it.
Her unhurried pace, even while others are waiting.
Meanwhile, a small crowd collects.
But no one else seems to mind.
Our conversation randomly leads
to something they also embrace.

She speaks slowly. Articulates well.
Her responses are thoughtful and genuine.
It is obvious (to me) that she is not t/here to sell belts.
Although belts hold her up.

Two men approach. Dark haired and perhaps in their 40's.
Retailers hunting for merchandise.
Predators who own their own local store,
in search of "new product".
Complaining that "business is down".
They interrupt to ask about venues.
Does she sell to the chains?
Lana ponders their probes,
amazed that they don't know 'One Of A Kind'.
She smirks, declaring something about profit margins.
They offer to buy all the "stock" that she has.
But she shrewdly maintains control of her work.
Of her life.

Her sideways glance grazes my movements.
She is keenly aware of how I turn each belt over.
Looking for flaws.
She explains to the men that her sales "are custom".
After chosing my leather, she pulls it out of my hands.
Points to a spot right beside her and beckons.
Still in mid-sentence, she stretches her arms out,
first wrappping (the belt) around my waist, then my hips.
Saying, "All you can buy these days is hipsters.
You'll need to allow extra room for this".
Standing mere inches apart, she surmises, "Nice teeth".

Both men appear to enjoy our physical interaction.
Visibly amused, Lana winks.
She cuts the belt to its measured length.
Polishes the edge. Next, marking and punching the holes.
With both men still watching, she points to the buckles.
I pick one with a small stain in the brass
(which appears on the side that won't show).
In response, she uncurls my fingers
and nests a second one in the curve of my palm.
"Just for insurance.", she adds.
I smile, remembering the last time she did this.

After the men have finally gone
but before we conclude our transaction, Lana proclaims,
"You give off good energy. You must get told that alot?"
"Not-so-much.", I reply.
But something prompts me to add, "We'll meet again."

And oddly enough, as I sit here,
clicking these keys, in front of a strobing screen,
rearranging the words of this piece,
I am filled with t h a t feeling again.
The one that soaks me with strange familiarity.
Crisp clarity of colour-and-shape overlaid across time.
And time, like the slow drip of honey.
Having known this moment before.
Not the converation with Lana,
but this precise-moment-of-writing-it-down-
and-everything-else-in-this-room-positioned-just-so.
This moment is what I 'know' so acutely.
This one I've dreamt, long before it unfolds.

And once again,
I am reminded
that travel (of any kind)
always follows an inward path.
Even if only to a park by the lake,
every step becomes part of a larger journey.
Always sailing us closer to the edge of self.