—an excerpt—
The old man was stabbing dirt with his pitchfork when Minka arrived at the community garden. She thought about ramming her mother’s Buick in reverse and leaving. But it was too late. He’d seen her.
Gustav. Minka knew his name, but he didn’t know hers. In fact, he didn’t know a single thing about her. She never shared, and he never asked. She was a random stranger with a pierced nose and inky vines snaking up her right arm. Fresh ears for torrential talk.
Him jabbering about building dams for Manitoba Hydro up north made her late for an appointment with her mother’s home care coordinator. Him yabbering about his sister’s recovery from hip surgery made her miss a meeting with a listing agent for her mother’s condo. He’d gone on about his family’s farm in Starbuck, his favorite doughnuts at Tim Hortons, and always, always the weather.
When he raised a work-gloved hand, Minka couldn’t pretend not to see him. Couldn’t whoosh by like wind to escape his sticky net of words. He was widowed and retired. Missing the old hockey buddies, his young grandkids whisked off to Calgary. A lonely hunter, hungry for human company.
She’d listened to his ramblings so many times that tendrils of annoyance now choked out her sympathy. This would be the last time she’d have to stand here feigning interest in what he was saying. After losing the battle against weeds and weather, she was giving up her garden plot.
Gustav leaned on his rusty pitchfork, milky blue eyes peering from under his faded straw hat as he appraised the scattering of pebble-sized spuds he’d unearthed. “Look at these,” he snorted. “Last year, they were ten times the size. I had enough potatoes to last all winter.”
Minka tugged the bill of her baseball cap to shield her face from the sun. “You might be able to sell them at the farmer’s market.”
“It’s always something here in the prairies,” Gustav grumbled. “But I can’t remember a worse growing season.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his jeans pocket to wipe his brow. “Finally warming up.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
