Oysters Rockefeller
Every year is the same. Send two
balloons to the heavens, a pouch
of her ashes attached, and watch
until she disappears. ‘Where do
you suppose she goes,’ asks the lad.
He thinks the jet stream will carry
her east. She’ll float to Prince Edward
Island or Newfoundland. On a
windy night she’ll make the trip in
four hours. We like this idea.
The balloons rise quickly and are
gone. Straight to the Maritimes, we
say. The balloons will settle – not
burst - on a coastline dotted with
colourful houses and shanties.
The lad is thinking of beaches
where the tiny packet might drop,
releasing her ashes into
the sand. Starfish will catch sight of
bits of glitter in the ashes.
And giant wily lobsters, we
tell him. The kind who are smart enough
to escape trawlers and live to
a startlingly old age. They will
be there to greet her. And oysters?
The first time she took us to a
fancy restaurant, she ordered
Oysters Rockefeller. You won’t
forget this. she said. It’ll be
our tradition. You, me, oysters.
‘Oysters Rockefeller are my
favourite thing in the world, too,’
says the lad, squinting, squinting. ‘Our
tradition, too.’ There is no trace
of the balloons. They are long gone.
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