When I Was Young and In My Prime by Alayna Munce

point you couldn’t deny it anymore. It was in the spring when it dawned on me. Or the summer. When do mums bloom? She brought chrysanthemums that day. From their garden, of course. Peter always had such a lovely garden. I passed by there the other day, by their old place on Silver Street. Such a shame it’s all gone to seed now. Any-hoo, I remember it was a UCW meeting and I was hosting—it was my turn. Peter must have dropped her off, but she didn’t even knock. I just happened to open the door because I’d burnt the orange loaf and I wanted to let in a little fresh air. Lord knows how long she’d been standing there with that big bunch of yellow chrysanthemums in her arms, the ends all wrapped in damp paper towels. I could tell right away by the look on her face when I opened the door and saw her standing on the front stoop with an armful of mums, her forehead tight and her eyes on the doorbell, well, I could tell that she was having one of her bad days. That’s what we’d been calling it, she and I, her bad days . So before taking her inside I just stepped out onto the porch with her and took the flowers and gave her a little hug with one arm and whispered in her ear, Just try to keep a stiff upper lip, Mary—it’ll be fine, just fine. I don’t know how I knew what to say. Normally I’m plain useless in those kinds of situations. I clam right up. But somehow the words just came to me. She looked at me with a kind of—relief. A kind of devoted relief, and we went inside, arm in arm. I remember thinking it was the kind of look you get from a hurt child or a dog or a man who’s just fallen in love with you. That was when I knew she was never going to be the same. She sort of stuck nearby me that day and didn’t say much, but when she did it wasn’t anything out of order. I remember when Peter came to pick her up, I made a point of praising his chrysanthemums.    

Peter Peter pumpkin
    eater Mary Mary quite  
    contrary had a wife and  

    Â  how  
    does your garden grow?

When Mary was still home, she’d soak her teeth in a water glass overnight. Had all her real teeth pulled years ago—dentist in Brantford said it’d be easier in the long run. On nights I couldn’t sleep, I used to look at her beside me sometimes. Sleeping away there. Toothless. Face sunken like a landslide. Whole landscape changed. Middle-of-the-night thoughts, you know.
    Lost her teeth at the nursing home last week. Nurse on duty just shrugged her skinny shoulders and told me, You keep valuables here at your own risk. Bitches, all of ’em. Want to know how much I pay every month to the goddamn crooks who own the place? Orientals now. Well, let’s just say it put me in a state. Worst part of it was nobody willing to give me a bloody straight answer as to what I should do. Had me walking around all week debating this way and that whether or not to replace the things. Costs hundreds to replace a whole set of dentures. Hundreds. I called Ruth long distance and she wasn’t any help. Ran into Lois King in the grocery store on Thursday, and she wouldn’t say a thing either, not even when I asked straight out, Do you think she even knows the goddamn difference? All of them just shrugging their shoulders. It’s up to you, Dad. Whatever you think is best, Peter. By the end of the week, I caught myself talking right out loud about it as I was digging up the glads. Christ, I said to myself, all the food in the place is mush anyhow—the bastards are afraid of being sued for choking—what does she need teeth for? But then I’d walk the block and a half to visit her and her face was a different face, not hers, not her own you know—more like a goddamn natural disaster than a face—and I’d end up going home early so I wouldn’t have to look at her anymore.  
    Then this morning I woke up even earlier than usual. Hours until the