Lois Villemaire

​Man on the Train
 
I claim a spot next to an older man seated by the window. He tells me he is traveling from Boston to a small town in Maryland for his granddaughter’s high school graduation. He has two daughters and likes to think of his daughter-in-law as one too. “Daughter-in-law is too formal.” 
 
Recently, his wife passed away. Family doesn’t want him to drive such a great distance alone. 

One daughter saw him off and another will pick him up. He’s wearing a blue baseball cap that read Grandpa #1 with the same logo on his long sleeved t-shirt. 
 
“I’m trying to read the paper but the scenery keeps stealing my attention. I like watching the open fields that turn into cities and towns.” We watch it together for a while.
 
“I wonder where we are.” I show him an app and point out the path of the train. We had just passed New Brunswick. “Is that a smart phone? I have a dumb phone.” He pantomimes the act of flipping open a phone and laughs. “Where are you going? Is that before or after my stop?”
 
He reminds me of my father in later years when his face became thin and chiseled. During those final six months he began to fall. He was moved from assisted living to nursing care. On what turned out to be our final hours together, I dabbed at his chin with a napkin as he relished Breyers vanilla ice cream and chocolate Tastykakes— his Philadelphia favorites. My father passed away at the age of 95, or as he liked to put it “in his 96th year.”
 
When his station is announced my seat-mate gives me a warm goodbye, gathers up his things, and I stand to let him pass. Now sitting by the window, my heart expands as he disappears into the arms and smiles of his family on the platform.
 
**

Facing the End of Life
 
“When you visit us at the cemetery we’ll be near the flagpole,” my father always said.
 
I sat with my sister and three brothers side by side on cushioned folding chairs in the front row while the rabbi spoke about the 95 years of our father’s life at a graveside service on a cool April morning. I felt comforted by warm waves of support from family and friends seated behind us. As promised, a flag was flying in close view. 
 
I had met the red-headed rabbi the day before at a deli. Having never known my father, he asked many questions to compose the eulogy. I memorized my sister’s face as she listened to him speak. She was sitting to my right. I noticed her profile — set mouth, wide open blue eyes, and unruly brown hair. She had been in treatment for lung cancer for three years and it was her recent decision to stop. 
 
“I don’t want to spend the time I have left lying on the sofa.”
 
To complete the funeral, Dad was honoured as a veteran serving in World War II, with a short ceremony including the playing of Taps and the precise folding of the flag. As the soldier approached us, he stood in front of my sister. I saw her face grow pink and she smiled as the red, white, and blue triangular package was laid to rest in her outstretched arms.

**
​
Raindrops
 
“The movie doesn’t start for thirty minutes. Let’s just wait here in the car,” I said.
 
The rain is beating on the roof - a steady rhythm with a peaceful sound. The sky is angry, dressed in shades of gray. Thunder rumbles. Raindrops are pouring down the windshield.
 
There isn’t  much to do in Ocean City when it’s raining - especially the kind of rain that’s predicted to last all day. I had wished it would help to change my location, to be away from home on my sister’s birthday. It would be the first one without her. I wanted to be distracted and busy in a different environment so I could trick the pain into not finding me. But no, there have been intense memories of her playing like a movie in my head all day. 
 
I’m haunted by the heartbreaking memory of her birthday just a year ago. She was in the hospital in Philadelphia during the time of the Pope’s visit. To prepare for this monumental event in terms of crowd control, the official security plan called for a section of the city to be mapped, prohibiting vehicular and pedestrian access for the entire weekend. As luck would have it, the hospital was located within this section. Stuck there, she could have no visitors on her birthday. We tried to make up for it afterwards but there never was a chance to have a proper celebration. Cancer cheated her out of so much, even her last birthday.
 
“Five more minutes until the movie,” he said. We’ll have to run for it.”
 
I realized there was no comfort in leaving home. As we ran, raindrops were streaming down my face, salty on my lips.
 
**
 
Lois Perch Villemaire is the author of My Eight Greats, a family history in poetry and prose and Eyes at the Edge of the Woods, a poetry chapbook (Bottlecap Press) 2024. Her work has appeared in Blue Mountain Review, The Ekphrastic Review, ONE ART: A Journal of Poetry and others. Anthologies including I Am My Father’s Daughter have published her memoir and poetry. She was the winner of the Haiku Challenge in Pen in Hand July 2023. Lois lives in Annapolis, MD, where she volunteers at the local library, enjoys yoga, researching family connections, and propagating African violets.