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Loss of innocence I was ten. A young ten. Younger than ten year olds are today. My mother had taken my sister and I to England to meet all our family whom up until that time had only been the origin of the Enid Blyton books and holiday chocolates. There'd been some mix up with our tickets and so one afternoon instead of touring the sites, my sister and I sat while my mother haggled with Air Canada Customer service. We sat in the waiting area, fidgeting as young girls do. Giggling and trying to remain calm, just waiting to escape back into the wonderland of London. A man came and sat down. I remember that he was well groomed, in a blue suit and tie with tidy hair. Claire had wandered over to my mother and I remained at the table flipping through the pile of magazines. He began to speak in soothing tones, almost crooning. Polite question nothing untoward, but at the same time he unzipped his pants and exposed himself. I immediately felt uncomfortable and was not drawn by the siren song of his voice, to touch him, as he suggested. I got up and walked away, back to my mother. By the time I reached her side, he was gone. I turned and looked up towards street level. He was there, standing on the sidewalk, looking down at me. He smiled, donned aviator sun glasses and was gone. Once I had my mother's attention, I told her what had happened. She raised hell and my next memory is of sitting at a booth in some cafe with Claire, my mother and an Air Canada employee. Everyone appeared calm, though and underlying level of tension belied their emotions. There was nothing to be done. But it changed me. I lost something that day. I became more fearful, not because of what had happened but for what I could see in my mother's eyes. June 17, 2000
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© 2000 - 2001 
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