Recently, I found myself driving to Burnaby to buy garden supplies with my landlady. (As an aside, I love my landlord and landlady.  I told them, “I’m going to make a lawn in the backyard and get rid of  the buttercups and weeds and those yellow things we don’t know what they are”, and they said, “Awesome! How can we help?” Even though they never go back there and it is my private spider-infested domain.)

So we were heading to a discount garden center on Byrne Road, and I was giving the landlady directions.

“You seem to know the area well,” she observed.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I used to have a boyfriend out here. We’d drive down to an old playground at the end of Byrne, and blow up pumpkins with firecrackers.” Which is totally true.  My ex loved blowing things up. It was a hobby for him. Very relaxing.

Aside from the periodic heroin addiction, I thought, and the fact that he couldn’t get over the fact that he’d have to live the rest of his life NOT a celebrity drug dealer, we could have had a wonderful life together.

I was quiet for a while. “Yeah. But for the grace of God, I could have been a divorced mother of two in Burnaby.”

“Wow,”  said my landlady. “You just never know what’s going to happen.”

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