The Day We Met Mary.

Some moments feel like déjà vu—echoes of past lives brushing against the present.

As my pregnant partner waddled toward the bus stop,
I found myself thinking,
I should have worn a short-sleeved shirt
on today, of all days. Humid and close.

At the bus stop,
an old woman approached,
and as old women often do,
she asked about the baby.

“Do you know what you’re having?” she said.
“A girl. A daughter,” I replied.
“Oh… that’s sweet.”

We all boarded the bus,
and she took comfort in our company.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” she said.
“I don’t think so,” we replied.
She insisted otherwise.

“Do you know how old I am?”
“Fifty-one,” I teased.
“Eighty-seven. I’m eighty-seven.”

Her nails were perfectly manicured,
her wrinkled brow,
a masterpiece of time.
My own faint wrinkles,
newborn in comparison,
grew envious of their perfection.

I thought,
if I make it to eighty-seven in her shape,
it’ll be a miracle.

“Do you know what it is yet?” she asked again,
then added, “Fifteen years in the ambulance service…”

I noticed the St. John’s Ambulance badge
pinned to her overcoat.

“It’s a girl,” I said. “We’re having a daughter.”
“Oh… that’s sweet,” she said again, smiling.

“I’m Mary. Mary Gertrude Margaret.”
“That’s a lovely name,” said Elizabeth. “I’m Elizabeth, and this is Greg.”
“Eliz… Eliz-a… E lies a bet,”
Mary murmured in soft, cloudy forms.

Our stop arrived,
and all four of us departed.
She was efficient and mobile,
more so than us.

Mary glanced at Elizabeth’s big bump.
“Do you know what it is yet?
I hope you get what you want, whatever it is.”

And then, just like that,
she disappeared.

The heavens opened,
I silently thanked myself
for remembering to wear a long-sleeved shirt,
on today, of all days.