Halley's Comet

The sunset was particularly pink that winter evening in 1986. It was March 13th to be exact. A big snow storm had just passed through the coastal province of Nova Scotia. "A nor'easter's on its way," the locals had been saying; their own term for describing the winds from the northeast that create the often turbulent—yet commonplace—weather for that time of year in Atlantic Canada. The power had been out for well over a day but had finally been restored.

Marjorie stood by the window above her kitchen sink, steeping her tea. She always had a cup of Red Rose with a splash of milk in the evening; a simple daily comfort she had looked forward to for as long as she could remember. Some days, it was the only thing she looked forward to. 

She watched the quiet, solid sheet of snow that remained in the yard at the side of the house. The calm after the storm, if you will. What had been white squalls and hissing gusts of wind a mere 24 hours before had turned into a crystal clear skies. Good thing too, as it would have been a shame to have the sky obstructed for the celestial event that was about to occur. It's really quite beautiful, Marjorie thought to herself, as the blank canvas of snow became painted gold by the vanishing sun, if only for a moment. She made her way to the sunroom at the back of the house, her hands cupping the warmth of her delicate mug.

Marjorie rocked back and forth in her wooden chair as she watched the waves crash against the rugged shore. She had always grown up by the ocean, just down the road from where she now sat; the same home where she had raised her children. She was well into her golden years—her little ones, long grown up—yet in many ways, she was still assuming her matriarchal role. Her daughter had become a mother herself a few years back, and Marjorie spent a lot of time there helping out. Sometimes the help was asked for, sometimes it was imposed. Often a mix of the two. 

Her husband, Arthur, had passed away only four years prior—"A widow maker, I'm very sorry,"—the doctor told her. And just like that, the man who had endured the harshest of seas at the helm of a fishing vessel for the better part of his life, was gone in an instant. "I'm Arthur's wife," had been Marjorie's greeting ever since they had gotten married at the tender age of 20, and in his absence she couldn't help but ask herself: Marjorie, who the hell are you? Language she would only ever use in the privacy of her own mind, of course. Mothers and good church-going women didn't speak like that. But fuck it, she would have liked to express herself in such a way at times. 

Nevertheless, the little girl who once collected sea glass along the very shore she now looked at from the comfort of her rocking chair, had now become both a widow and a grandma. Grandma. How times flies when you're—what had she even done to make the time fly?

Marjorie had never traveled much in her lifetime; not up until that point. And truth be told, she never would. She would daydream of such adventures, though, of hopping on a plane like they did in the movies. Jetting off somewhere—anywhere—other than here. This one-horse town, if you will. This quaint community in rural Nova Scotia, one kept thriving by the lobster fishery, where everyone knew your name...and your business. Going to the grocery store for a loaf of bread was always met with a parade of Hey, how are yous?  Which was nice, in a way, that feeling of community. But at times, Marjorie would feel the truth bubbling at the surface. She felt that any day now, her real answer would leave her mouth—the truth of how she was really doing—rather than the standard I'm good, how are you?

The sunset views in Marjorie's backyard were astonishing. Each evening, looking completely different from the one prior. Depending on the wind, how overcast the sky was, if the tide was high or low; all of this and more would alter the color scheme, mood, and overall emotional experience of each sunset. She never took a single one for granted...other than the ones she did.