Ripe Royal Galas

It’s Saturday, and we’re on our way to the grocery store, a weekly tradition.

My mother has her black sundress on; I’m wearing my red T-shirt. We stroll under sugar maples and the occasional willow, the wind tickling our necks, our footsteps falling silently on the sidewalk. I missed this trip last week, when I was at camp, and I nearly forgot about all the feelings and movements associated with it. Our shoulders sometimes brush against each other, our legs swing in rhythm. There are no words but it is a comfortable silence, and I suddenly become acutely aware of how much I missed it last week. And how much I will miss it when I leave home for university.

“Mommy,” I say, “I don’t wanna grow up.”

“I know, honey,” she murmurs, putting her arm around my shoulders, and I see that she truly understands. After all, she was my age, once.

When we arrive at the store, she says, “You grab a cart, I’ll get some fruit.”

She always lets me get the cart because she remembers how, when I was younger, I used to run to get it, bouncing joyfully, quarter gripped in my hand. I would eagerly slide the coin in, push the funny “key,” pull out the cart, and carefully manoeuvre it back to my mother, beaming with childish pride. She would ruffle my hair and thank me. (She used to be tall enough to ruffle my hair. Or, I used to be short enough.)

But now getting the cart doesn’t seem as vitally important as it used to be, compared to the other things that now fill my life. This ritual is now as ordinary as the ritual of putting the ticket into the box in the subway… I guess I really am growing up, after all.

“Nah,” I reply, “you get the cart. I know how much you hate choosing the apples.” It’s true; she can’t stand endlessly turning the ripe Royal Galas around, looking for the miniscule soft spots distributed unevenly under the red skins.

She looks at me with surprise: she knows I feel even greater irritation when I pick the fruit. Anyway, she’s always the one who makes self-sacrifices to ensure my comfort.

I remember, with a clarity that comes with hindsight, the yearly trips to Ontario Place. I went down the kiddie slides over and over again, screaming with laughter each time. I didn’t really notice her then, not consciously. But in my memories, she stands off to the side, smiling at my joy, towels in hand, sun scorching her black hair, waiting uncomplainingly for me to finish. She’s always been that way--impossibly patient and caring--and she still is.

“But--” My mother’s voice breaks through my reveries, “but you always get the cart.” Her voice fades as she realizes how silly that sounds. I understand; she doesn’t want me to grow up, either. Neither of us does, but I’m doing it anyway, against my will.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling how inadequate an apology that is, for my sudden, awkward and infuriating adolescence.

She reaches a hand up to touch my cheek. “It’s just--” she murmurs softly, “you’ve changed so much.”

I look at her, this woman who has always offered me love I’m not sure I deserve but which I ground my life upon anyway. I tell her, with genuine appreciation,

“And you haven’t changed a bit.”

Toronto Star, July 2003, Winner in Starship Story Contest