The ferry crossing was smooth, a gentle glide from Gabriola to Nanaimo. Now, I sit in Serious Coffee, bathed in the light of a beautiful morning. Alone.

There’s a soothing balm in this solitude, a restorative quietude. No need for conversation, no urge to connect beyond this moment.

Around me, the world unfolds in a symphony of sounds. The cappuccino machine hums its gentle rhythm, steam hissing, a counterpoint to the murmur of voices. Two men by the window, their deep voices rising and falling: a question mark in one, a nasal certainty in the other. To my right, a different scene. Two women, their conversation hushed and intimate, a conspiracy of whispers. One speaks with her hands, a flurry of movement, like a sparrow flitting between bare winter branches. Her voice is a rustle of leaves, while her companion listens, a picture of quiet empathy. A hand reaches out, a touch of comfort offered and withdrawn, and then back to the attentive stillness of listening.

Suddenly, I hear my mother’s voice, a familiar echo in the chambers of my memory. “It’s not polite to eavesdrop,” she chides, her words sharp, her disapproval clear. I can almost see her hands, those tiny, fluttering gestures, like a hummingbird hovering at a feeder.

“I’m not eavesdropping,” I whisper back, “just observing.” And in my mind’s ear, I hear the click of her tongue, that familiar tsk of disapproval, a sound that once held the power to wound.

My mother, a woman whose love was woven with threads of criticism, a tapestry of warmth and irritation. I carry her memory like an itchy wool sweater, comforting and chafing in equal measure.

I thought she was gone, that she had finally found the peace that eluded her in life, that she had moved beyond the confines of this earthly realm. But here she is, on this bright January morning, a presence in my solitude.

Perhaps she can hear me now, as clearly as I hear her. In life, I rarely granted her the grace of true listening, my responses clouded by judgment and the lingering shadows of childhood hurts.

But now, in this quiet coffee shop, I find myself comforted by her presence. Grateful for the grace that allows me to meet her memory with a gentler heart, a more understanding spirit. And I find hope in the thought that perhaps, even now, reconciliation is possible, in the vast and mysterious expanse that lies beyond this life.

The two women leave. More strangers enter, drawn by the warmth and the aroma of coffee. And I sit alone. Calm. Listening to the clinking of cups, the murmur of voices, the whisper of the cappuccino machine. My mother, I realize, has slipped away again, back into the quiet corners of my memory. But the grace she unknowingly offered remains.

Soon, I’ll be back on the ferry, the salt spray on my face, the island rising from the sea.

A sweet, succulent smile of gratitude warms my heart. Life is beautiful, a tapestry woven from these small, perfect moments.