The book store was closed again today, and so The Boy, The Baby and I could not grab a bus and go to the big parade a few towns over : no bus ticket. Instead, we decided to take a long walk through town and returned home almost two hours later.

We walked up and down streets, through alleys, to old playgrounds, to our little beach. As all of the stores were closed today, town was deserted and we could hear our laughter echo around the harbor as we watched the ducks land and then slide on the ice. We chit- chatted the whole two hours, some times I would talk about the places in town that were their favorite spots to be wheeled over to, back in their stroller days. And The Boy would sigh, his voice misting over with nostalgia and say Those were the good old days or Those were the best years, until I finally asked him to stop it. He is only 9 ( alright, 9.5) years old and he is making today sound like some living nightmare, a hell on earth.

We took the long way to the little playground , as I wanted to peer into the real estate agent’s window and see what was for sale in town, what they were asking these days for houses here. As we turned the corner and passed the old brewery, The Boy and I wondered if those two foaming- at- the- mouth- alsatians were still pacing back and forth in that hidden garden. They weren’t, they were gone, and as we passed their old gate, The Boy murmured once more, remembering Those great, gone times.

As we neared the turn to the little playground ( conveniently- and with much forethought regarding safety for the toddlers in town- located in a parking lot), I noticed a For Sale sign on Ms. Nora’s house. That surprised me a bit, but only because I had thought that most of the houses on this street were rentals.

Ms Nora. heads the nursery school that all of the kids attended, she won a gold star in my book by finding The Boy charming. Even after having him in her class for two years.

She called him a real boy.

As we walked by her garden wall, her gate opened and there was Ms.Nora., wheeling her bike out of her yard. I smiled at her- for I am always glad to see anyone that likes The Boy- and asked her if she was moving. She turned her face to me and I could see that she was like me in that she didn’t cry like Liz Taylor either. No, tears had ravaged her face and- The Boy later mentioned- streaked her mascara.Yes, she replied, we are divorcing, I have to move. I said that times must be very difficult for her and she said that they were. And then I wished her luck, she rode away on her bike and The Boy and The Baby ran over to the swings in the parking lot behind her house.

It must be terrible when your family falls into pieces, your life shatters.