Today, it is the fourth anniversary of our flight from Hades. Three time zones away, elder daughter, having attended a thrice-postponed wedding, is leaving Ottawa herself, returning to her new life in London.
As is my practice, when I find myself masked, distanced, and at the head of the line at the coffee shop, I turn to ask the person behind me if I might slip in, drop my packsack on a table, and resume my place.
This morning, it's a rather dapper gentleman.
"Do you happen to have a mask?" he inquires. "I seem to have dropped mine somewhere on the way here; I had it when I left home..."
"I keep a spare in my packsack," I say. "Give me a moment."
I plop my packsack on the table, and paw through one of the side pockets, before returning to the door, with the mask dangling by its long strings. It's a double tie design, purchased early in the pandemic.
"Make sure Harry Potter is right-side-up," I advise with an apologetic air. He fastens it cheerfully over his neat moustache. It looks a bit incongruous with his impeccable navy raincoat.
"I like your mask!" I hear one of the baristas greet him. Fortunately, she has the disposable kind on hand, and I think he and I are equally relieved when I reclaim Harry Potter.
After all, I need him for Hallowe'en.
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