He was standing under the Bay’s sloped roof, wearing his navy blue beret, his navy blue jacket and his grey flannel trousers, a tray full of cloth poppies strapped around his neck. It was raining. It was densely dark. Christmas decorations were going up in the display windows. They went up earlier, each year. Shoppers brushed by him, through the double doors. Office workers rushed past him on their way to the McGill metro, and to the parking lots. Umbrellas mushroomed.

Pedestrians dashed to the movies, to the restaurants, and to the cafes. The kiosk in Phillips Square, hawking Mackintosh apples and maple-leafed-shaped maple sugars, rolled up its awning. Great, cosmic tears streamed down the cheeks of Edward VII and his chorus of angels. If he weren’t already hewed in bronze, the old king would’ve rusted.

The veteran huddled closer to the entrance of the Bay. Renia was heading home from work–that was when she saw him. The texture of his skin was like parchment-his face was seamed with lines. Renia approached the old soldier. She proffered her lapel. The veteran picked a poppy from the field on his full tray and, with trembling hands, pinned it into the wool of Renia’s jacket.

Renia pulled five dollars from her purse, folded the blue bill, and slipped it into the veteran’s blue-and-white can. “Thank you,” he said, surprised. “Oh no,” Renia smiled. “It is I who thank you.” After forty years in Canada, Renia’s English bore only a hint of an accent. The old soldier caught it. A spark flashed in his faded eyes. His shriveled lips stretched into a smile.

Renia spread the folds of her umbrella toward the charcoal-colored sky. Welts of water slashed across the pavement, lashing at the dead, matted leaves. Renia was relieved she’d left the car at home. She ducked into the metro and rode the escalator down into its bowels, for the long ride to Plamondon…Emerging from the Plamondon metro, Renia stopped by at the Brown Derby’s deli counter. Lord, how she hated to cook. Renia selected a container of soup, and a thick slab of gefilte fish.

Leaving with her purchases, she crossed the shopping center’s parking lot and steeled herself for the transfer to the 161…The downpour had diminished to a drizzle. A young woman was sitting on the bench next to the stop. The bench hadn’t been removed for winter, yet. There was the usual line-up of seniors. The 161 skidded to a halt, splashing the waiting passengers. The doors opened. The people on the bus tried to get off. The people on the sidewalk tried to get on. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you even wait “til I get down? You want I should break my leg?”