Vancouver Special —Evelyn LauThose summer days of searching
for a new house seemed an adventure—
I rode into each castle
on my father's shoulders like a small king,
pointing, nodding, the realtor fawning over me
as if I held the key to my family's future.
I beamed under the attention, busily bustled
from room to room stroking the walls,
the shag carpet, the realtor with his oily round face
rustling up a sweaty mint from his pocket for me.
I remember kitchens with carpeted floors, sundecks,
covered carports, avocado appliances everywhere.
Seventies' sunlight flooded in.
The realtor got down on one knee,
peered into my face as if I were an oracle,
repository of my parents' desires—
I was the firstborn, I sat at the head of the table
holding court, I held their happiness in my hands.
They were marvellous, these boxy modern houses
we might make our own—all except
the last one. Not this one, we can't buy
this one, I cried, peering down
from the great height of my father's shoulders
at the unfinished sink, the hole in the counter.
My scratched legs bracketed his face—
his hands held me in place
steady as a surgeon's.
But who knew where it could lead, this ugly gape
scattered with sawdust, this empty well
into which I could fall forever. Please . . .
The adults laughed, signing documents
with the realtor's gold pen—
the sink would be ready
by the time we moved in.
Nothing could happen here
that wouldn't happen in any other house.
Evelyn Lau is a Canadian poet and novelist.
