“If it wasn’t for what happened on the Plains of Abraham,” the fellow at supper had said, “we’d all be speaking French.”
I think about this on a Sunday morning in Old Quebec. I’m tromping about in a fresh dusting. It’s mostly quiet. Mostly still. A tour bus idles in front of the Chateau. Diesel and Starbucks for breakfast.
Church bells ring out. The damned stay damned.
Christmas decorations left to distress. Nordiques jersey on the shoulders; reliving past glory.
A few fatigued souls shamble about, lost in whatever battle is waging on their plains.
Through a window, I can see families having brunch inside the lavish parts of the hotel. I do not belong there. I cannot help myself but stare. My Fuji takes a souvenir. For them or me? I’m selfish. I’m a collector of moments.
The despair of February is in the ether. There’s beauty everywhere. Always a duality.
I watched a man rummage in the garbage for aluminium. He had a big sack of colorful, discarded cans. It was the most beautiful thing. I wanted to take a picture, but not his dignity. So I did nothing. Except watch.
Montcalm and Wolfe. Hundreds of years later it doesn’t seem to matter who was right or moral. Aggressor and aggrieved, or perhaps the other way ’round. The victor is the victor. What happened happens. They’ve all got monuments somewhere.
The losers take pictures and push on toward March.
Spring will come. It always does.
