by Roxy Thomas
bold brewed coffee
From the top floor of the double decker bus,
which swayed proudly on its downtown commute, she admired the reflection of the
skyscrapers in the speckled river not yet covered by ice. The pale blue sky was
still tinged with pink and the twinkling streetlights highlighted the historic
peaks of the turreted hotel that dominated the hilltop. Most of the suburban commuters
were busy reading a book, checking their smart phones or catching a quick nap,
bored with the Edmonton skyline. She never grew tired of the view, especially
of the century old red brick school that sat atop Rowland Road, her ancestral
homestead, now surrounded by high-rise buildings. She liked to imagine stories
of her relatives farming the fertile land stretching down to the river valley.
Knowing the harsh northern climate, it must have been hard work, but rewarding
to watch as the new town grew up around the trading post.
Now that her grandfather had passed, she
had to imagine the stories, as there was nobody left to pass them down, as was
the oral tradition of his indigenous family. He never talked about his Metis
background, and she never realized he was fluent in Cree, missing the chance to
hear his deep voice regale her with tales from his youth. She only heard second
hand stories of their Scottish heritage and how her great-great grandfather worked
at Fort Edmonton. Much later, when he father took an interest in his Metis
history, she learnt about her great-great grandmother, and she was instantly
intrigued. She wondered if her kokum
experienced the type of racism still common today, and knew in her heart she
did. But perhaps back then, there was a better appreciation for the skills and
strength of the indigenous women, who helped European settlers to survive the harsh
Canadian wilderness. From the few faded pictures she saw, she sensed the strong
and formidable nature of the petite thin women with dark crinkly eyes.
She brushed the tears from cheeks and sadness
overwhelmed her as she realized that she may never know the real stories, as
there was no one left to ask. She would like to write the tales down, for her
son and niece. Perhaps it was time to call her dad and hear what he might
remember. Pressing her forehead against the cold glass of the double decker she
did not see the skyscrapers, but instead the confused face of her dad watching
her leave from the dementia unit window.
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