A snowless winter, a barren spring and now a sky piled high with cotton balls and blank faced men in suits that pour out of the Stock Exchange in search of a sunny bench on which to eat lunch.
Toronto in springtime.
I dream of the rebirth of hope, but am somewhere in between now, and Sylvia, and the day we burned our dream.
Who am I? you may ask.
I’m a person who loved—and then got casually thrown away.
Spring sunshine has a quality
Transcending rooks and the hammerings
Of those who hang new pictures,
Asking if it is worth it
To clamour and caw, to add stick to stick for ever.
I say the lines from MacNiece’s poem and then leave them hanging out to dry.
I picture my mother in our backyard pegging freshly washed sheets on the line. I see the cross they’re hanging from—the one I died upon a dozen times—but Sylvia wouldn’t understand.
I was only a child, but loved her even then. It's possible.
Why can’t people understand?
“I don’t get it, Doctor Benson—What’s MacNeice trying to say?”
Shannon Morris is frowning, furrowing her freckled brow, trying to wrap her mind around an experience that can only elude her.
She’s beautiful—inspiring.
Education is wasted on the young.
“Have you ever felt torn between the futility of hope and the promise of the new, Ms. Morris?”
She frowns. I chuckle indulgently.
“No, of course, you haven’t. You’re much too young and still believing.”
“Believing in what, Professor?”
“Does it matter? —The first snowfall, summer clouds…the promise of spring—and the expectancy that love might be on the wing.”
“So, you’re saying the poet’s jaded?”
No, my Muse, I’m saying I’m jaded.
I try to simplify.
“I’m saying it’s similar to what Eliot said in The Wasteland about April being the cruelest month.”
“Because it mixes memory with desire?”
I arch an eyebrow and look at her curiously and reply caustically, “Well, yes, that and the fact the Sybl is hanging in a cage wanting to die.”
“I suppose that’s what happens when you trade your virginity for a handful of sand.” She responds.
The class titters and I smile.
“Nicely done, Ms. Morris—you surprise me.”
Now, she smiles.
“O wonderful student, that can so astonish her teacher,” I add.
The frown’s back momentarily—and then a flash of sunlight. “Isn’t that an allusion to Hamlet, Doctor Benson?”
I nod. Now I am impressed.
The Hart House bells are chiming. Testing the carillons? I glance at the clock—four p.m. already—the lecture’s over.
I watch the students file out—answer the usual obligatory questions then reach for my briefcase.
“Do you have a minute Professor Benson?”
It’s Shannon. Despite my outward calm, my heart is racing.
“Ms. Morris—a reprise of the student surpassing the teacher, perhaps?”
“Highly unlikely—more a case of lowly graduate student, hat in hand, requesting a huge favor.”
She is flawlessly beautiful—clear complexion, almost transparent, huge green eyes and shiny long blonde hair. Where did I go wrong in my youth?
“Where’s your hat?” I tease.
“I’ll show you if you let me buy you a coffee in the coffee shop.”
I hesitate—only because of protocol—my body’s singing like a tuning fork.
She jumps into the void. “I write for the Varsity and my editor wants me to do an article on you.”
The Varsity is the campus newspaper and not usually given over to the adulation of Professors.
She seems to read my mind.
“Apparently, your last round of student course evaluations were quite favorable,” she tells me.
I shrug noncommittally.
Not to be deterred, she pulls out a piece of paper, “—Here, let me quote,” she smiles.
Professor Benson transforms Modern Poetry into one of the most enriching academic experiences I’ve ever had at U of T. What makes Professor Benson’s teaching style admirable is little things like remembering names, bringing up past conversations with students and incorporating all comments into the discussion. He also has long brown hair that gets in his eyes and wears really cool designer jeans and tweed jackets.
I color slightly. She giggles and tosses her head—her long blonde hair swings gently and I inhale the delicate fragrance of her perfume.
“It’ll be a favorable article,” she pleads.
“In that case, Ms. Morris, I’ll buy the coffee.”
“It’s Shannon,” she smiles.
“Well, in that case, if we’re on an informal basis, it’s Matthew.”
“Matthew,” she repeats, “I wondered what the initial stood for—I guessed Michael.”
“I guess I’m no angel,” I chuckle.
“That’s intriguing,” she whispers, “Matthew was a writer.”
We walk across campus to Hart House and I feel alive again.
The squirrels are chasing each other in Queen’s Park and warm spring sunlight filters through the trees highlighting her hair.
She’s incredibly lovely and I’m feeling giddy.
What am I doing? I ask myself and realize I don’t care about protocol—all I care about is her amd expunging my pain…
And where this is going I have no idea but it’s better than where I've been.
