She’s sitting in her wicker chair in the sunroom, looking at the ravine outside her window, wondering if the rabbits have been digging in her garden. She pads her thumb over the cheese tray, picking up the last of the Melba toast, leaving nothing to waste, and finishes her port. She thinks about the children. Quiet down now, she imagines. Eyes front for the national anthem. She bumped into one the other day, married and with such good posture. Remarkable. Did she know she’d been her favourite teacher, the woman had asked. Can you imagine? After all this time. A favourite? Still, she’d struggled to recall, settling on a memory that could have been any number of students. There were so many, after all, and not one sick day. But, yes, she’d responded. Thank you. Of course, she remembered her. Such a bright child. A happy child. And she’d grown into a beautiful woman. Just like her daughter, she’d have to imagine.
READER
Caucasian male, mid-50s, wearing burgundy t-shirt, grey shorts, and sandals.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
J.K. Rowling
(Raincoast, 2007)
p 186