Grief, Memory, Three O'Clock in the Morning: My Mavis Gallant Centennial Diary, August 10

Last Words

3.02 a.m. Mavis Gallant (MG) told an interviewer her favourite colour was yellow. She loved flowers, and I hope she’d approve of the sunflowers — what could be more Leonine? — I bought for her compline service tonight. I took them over to the church yesterday afternoon, left them in what I hope was enough water to sustain them for 24 hours. It came from the tap, not from any sanctified trough, so they don’t have leg-up in that regard. Fingers crossed.

The MG compline service — I really do think it’ll be lovely — will take place at 7 PM at St. James’ Anglican Church, corner of Cordova and Gore, in Vancouver. The rector of St. James’, the venerable Kevin Hunt, will be the officiant. We’ll have organ music and plainsong chant and cantor Shefa Siegel will also sing. So will Veda Hille, and Gabrielle Rose will read a few selected texts. No live streaming but there’ll be an audio recording, all going well, that’ll be posted here tomorrow, August 11, round about noon. I’ll save my formal — and brief! — goodbyes for then.

St. James’ Anglican is in the downtown eastside area of Vancouver. That was always the “poorest postal code in the country;” I’m not sure if it still is. An important part of the church’s mission has been to work with the residents of the DTES; this has been so for years now, there’s an active and dedicated street ministry working out of the church. Something fascinating and tragic is happening a very few blocks away from Gore and Cordova, which is the removal of a tent city that’s taken over a sizeable part of Hastings Street and is growing. The reasons why the city want it gone hardly need spelling out — fire risk, sanitation, crime, drugs, pressure from residents and businesses, to say nothing of how a sizeable chunk of the commons has been seconded. Similarly, the reasons the citizens of the tent city want to remain are the usual ones — usual, because this, or something like this, sadly, has been going on for years and years now: if we have nowhere to go and we have come here and you don’t want us here, were are we to go? I walked home from the church yesterday, a few blocks away from where I later learned a tense standoff was taking place between the police and the protestors. I had no idea, which is the difference a few blocks can make in a city. On the other hand, a few blocks are nothing, and the situation is volatile, for sure. I did wonder, I’ll say candidly, if the “situation” might, as happens with unrest in hot weather, spread beyond the relatively contained area, the epicentre of unrest, and, were that to happen, what it might mean for the compline service; I write that knowing that, in the grand scheme of things, it holds no weight of importance. But I did wonder. And yes, I worry. Well. The world is the world. It will do as it wants and needs. My hope is for safety and peace for all — why would it be otherwise; but my instinct about outcome is at odds with my hope. If a change or cancelation is necessary, I’ll post word of it here. Fingers crossed for a good result for all concerned. The purpose of the compline is to give thanks for the day and to ask for safe passage through the night. That would be a worthwhile wish to convey to the ether, I think.

Always good to hear Veda Hille perform. She’s set this collection of single lines from MG stories, all of them interrogatives. She’ll perform it — all going as planned — with Gabrielle Rose, a really great actor. It’s called, “In That Case, What is the Question?” which is a line borrowed from Gertrude Stein — I mentioned this the other day; from what were said to be her last words to Alice Toklas. Last words. I don’t know if MG spoke any; well, of course in a literal sense she did, but you take my meaning. I’ve no idea if she said something pithy, aphoristic, memorable; if she delivered a succinct summation of the situation, wise or witty or both. Dying is hard work, or can be, and few are sufficiently cogent as the end draws nigh to summon the strength or verve to lob one last bon mot and then draw a veil. This penultimate posting is also a collage: it’s a gathering of MG’s “last words,” a found poem made up of some of her closing sentences, mostly from stories, in a few cases from essays. I’ve used them — it’s a kind of sampling — sometimes in their entirety; sometimes, just the final few words have been deployed. They’ve been sorted into six-line stanzas, for no significant reason that I can offer. I just like the look of them. I suppose it should have a title. Let’s just call it, “Stories Can Wait.” Off to the store, and then I have to get me to the church on time. Love and peace. I mean that, truly. Thanks for reading, xo, B

Stories Can Wait

The card must have been the eight of clubs —

“a female child,” her personal angel,

white and swaddled, baptized,

innocent, ready for death.

The others were laughing behind their hands.

My mother’s hands were small, like mine.

My mother was the net.

When she was young, and in love,

she let the memory stand.

She had no reason to believe she had seen it before,

or would ever again.

Some summer or other would always be walking on her grave.

When she had only nine, she thought she had none.

Why don’t you take better care of me?

And why are you bothering me?

Is it true you don’t believe a word I say?

Do you think I am dangerous and old?

She might have bitten back the last word.

She emerged in triumph from the little wood

and came off Chief, her pony,

and into her father’s arms.

It turned into a happy evening, one of their last in France.

You should see them at coquet.

You’ll be seeing plenty of everything now.

My father lived to be ninety.

He ceased to be, and it made absolutely no difference

after that whether or not he was forgotten.

Such a waste of everything; such a waste.

“Please stop saying it,” he said.

I’ve forgotten why I wanted to mention this.

Forget our dreams and return to life.

If it’s not a true voice, it is nothing.

He has waited too long to afford a mistake;

he would be sure to agree.

He knows that a little later she will tell him why.

It is how they said good-bye.

Not only skiing, but flying,

waiting to see the shore approach,

my heart hammering as I strained to find

the one beloved face;

all I could find were descriptions of the weather.

I was still under ten and had all my wits about me.

That was the first of many changes.

It should be easy. We’ll be all right.

If it’s not a true voice, it is nothing.

That’s all you are. Stories can wait.

Don’t get your life all mixed up with a dog’s.

In the meantime, I send you God’s favour.