The Buses and Other Short Stories Read Online Free PDF

She threw her jacket on her shoulders and took off like a carefree butterfly.
    My daughter’s mention of High Park turned my thoughts to when I was my daughter’s age and my mother and aunt strolled in the park. Surely my dear aunt would be laughing if she were here now. Perhaps she would even tell me the same thing she said to my mother back then: “Goodness, Anne, pick up your step, show some spirit in your walk, so you can keep up with your daughter.” This remark annoyed my mother and she would get back at my aunt by accusing her of never having amounted to much, that she spent too much time reading, painting and looking after the garden. Regretfully, my mother concluded that my aunt would die an old maid in that ridiculous room of hers whose walls were covered with paintings.
    Full of light and colour, that silly room was the most beautiful I had ever seen. With the exception of a few portraits, young and old figures in bold colours, most of the paintings on its walls depicted outdoor scenes. There were images of plants, a variety of trees, flowers, insects and fruit. And when the sun pierced the panes of the oversized window, the outdoor illustrations glittered and transported one to the nearby High Park. It was there where my aunt derived her inspiration and spent countless hours painting.
    One day I asked her, “Why have you hung all your works on the walls, auntie? Mother says…”
    â€œWhat does she say? What? Come on tell me, my sweet. Why have you lost your voice?”
    â€œMother says…, it’s the most joyous room which resembles a garden in bloom.” My aunt gave me a serious look and replied in a most refined voice, “oh, my sweet girl how fortunate that you have not inherited anything from her.”
    An inexplicable feeling took hold of me; it was as if an invisible thread tied me to her. We had become one and we could never lie to each other. I could sit by her side for hours and ask her all kinds of questions, questions that came naturally to me and needed to be answered sincerely. And she answered them in a heartfelt manner based on my soul’s needs rather than the wants of her own experience.
    â€œMy dear aunt, why are you always changing this room? Yesterday your sofa was facing the window and now you’ve placed the armchair in its spot. You’ve replaced the burgundy curtains with the green ones…”
    â€œI’m making the old new again, my child. All that I have in this world and with these weary legs of mine I’m carrying on and on.”
    â€œAnd aren’t you bored, auntie?”
    â€œCome close to me, my child and let me whisper something in your ear. If you don’t want to feel old, you should walk as well. And don’t stop. Develop an interest in making the old new again, and keep it. Do you hear me? Don’t stop and don’t get bored.”
    I stared at her trying to make sense of her advice. She noticed my confusion and continued: “Some day you’ll remember me, surely you’ll remember.”
    And I do recall her words now. My aunt was young, very young. Her white hair and wrinkled face revealed her true age. But her eyes sparkled; they were vigorous. She could see far, even the dawned sun because she believed in it. And her belief had depth; it was as deep as the roots of her soul. And she wanted me to believe as well.
    â€œIt’s important, very important, my dear, that you are able to see the rising sun as you grow old.”
    Perhaps I was around twelve at the time. I recollect running up the stairs in a huff, bursting into her room without knocking. With a feathered duster in hand, she turned abruptly towards me and gave me a puzzled look.
    â€œWhat’s all this? “What’s the matter, child?”
    My sobs erupted from the depths of my soul. The love within me was so heavy and my young body couldn’t carry it on its own. I cried ceaselessly, for the pain and