Bay of Fundy

Marjorie stood in her backyard, looking at that handmade picnic table at the end of the property, in Nova Scotia. That was Richard’s favourite place to sit. During the calmest of days, they could enjoy her view and watch as the seagulls sunbathed on the exposed rocks.

How ironic that when they had finally retired and moved to their dream home by the bay, Richard only had two years to enjoy it. Every afternoon, when the weather allowed, she walked to the end of her property with her glass of wine. Richard would watch her from the kitchen window, making sure that he didn’t miss one moment. Her face clearly read fulfillment. It beamed through the kitchen window every summer morning. Her expression reflected with aid from the bay. It lit up every square foot of that house.

Memories now overpowered the smell of that salty water, the taste of its fresh bounty, and even her ability to enjoy sitting at that table ever again.

The last six months had been rough, no less than the water on a stormy day. Initially, the doctors had diagnosed his illness incorrectly and Richard didn’t get the care he needed. Proper healthcare was hard to find in this part of the world… By the time she found a specialist, before they received a proper diagnosis, it was too late to save her husband. It was hard for her to comprehend that, after fifty years of marriage—she would be alone.

Her daughter, Emma, had arranged for the sale of the house. She insisted she come to live with her and her family in British Columbia. She said she needed “looking after.” The movers had arrived, and she had to say goodbye to the bay, the seagulls, and her independent life.

Marjorie picked up her drink one last time and walked out into her backyard. The picnic table had a layer of salt on it. She rubbed her fingertips along it, anyway. She looked back at the house and cried.