Elizabeth McCallister

The Sound of Chimes

I

Union Station a way point between grimy Red Rocket subway cars in overheated tunnels screeching round the bend; above the train concourse filled with people and bags obeying the call of a train’s whistle. Downstairs a conductor’s mouth whistle, upstairs, a French-accented baritone calling out Windsor, Montréal, Quebec City and points beyond

II

A place where people left families behind Grampy in his fedora with feather Grammy in her long mink coat with matching hat her hair always in a chignon on cold January afternoons, the rest of us coming down to the station to say good-bye back when long distance calling was a big deal.

III

Or Mom with three girls under five holding the youngest on one arm and her white toiletry case in the other. Dad seeing his family off for two weeks. Later that day I followed in my mother’s panicked footsteps clutching that same case across Montréal’s train station.

IV

Stronger than all my train memories, Dad opening the door when we got back his face clearer than I remembered and his hair darker than I knew. How else do you describe the first time anyone came into focus?

Rhonda Melanson

How to Grieve for the Unvaccinated

Skip the denial, dive blood first into anger. Fact is, you can call red oxblood crimson scarlet

or candy red like her cardigan & lipstick, her nose ring, a stud bolder than mine. Cinnamon wisdom, sweet & sharp,

Yet mischievious with her conspiratorial half-whisper- I’m not vaccinated, you know, and you giggle back, regret later...

Words futile as final wills and testaments, swallowed like plastic down uncomfortable throats

Your words. Hers. You remember them peaceful. Rose-coloured.