by Rachelle de Bretagne

Created on: July 09, 2009   Last Updated: July 16, 2009

My mother's boyfriend has a well-worn face. His wrinkles are accentuated by the occasional smile. It's as if his skin had found comfort in it's wizened state, and lines were drawn by the passing of time that give way to wisdom. His eyes are sincere. His concentration on small things always amazes me. How can a man of this age wonder at the sight of a butterfly? How can he watch in awe as the sun sets upon another day? He is old and wise, though not wise enough to resist the allure of my mother.

It was a cold day when we walked through the station looking for that lost suitcase. My mother was always vain. Within the blue designer built case was hidden an array of her treasure. These treasures were temporary and of little substance to anyone but her. Within the bottles and potions which promised her youthful skin and firm breasts lay her lifeline. At a time in her life when she was perpetually reminded by my passing birthday that she was no longer young, my mother took to her regime of trying to fix what nature could do little about.

Her face was shrouded in a kind of misery as she pushed her way through queues of people at the inquiry desk. She held my hand, although did not notice the people who pushed and shoved me, as if I was too small to have any significance. That suitcase was her way out of being mundane, and without it, she was lost.

Glancing across the shelves of lost luggage bags, there it sat and her face lit up like she had won the lottery. The man behind the desk was helpful and friendly and didn't know that my mother hid behind the mask of product promises as he handed the bag to her with a smile, well practiced on people who were the owners of reclaimed luggage.

We left the station and I remember the thud as that suitcase hit the stone stairs and made its way down to the bottom in an undignified thud. There on the pavement below the bottles and lotions, cotton buds and mirrors lay in disarray. My mother chased down the stairs as fast as she could, as if that chance at youth had escaped her a second time, her heels bending under her weight.

The man spoke gently. Leaning down to help her, we had no idea that he would become a part of our lives. A passing stranger, he simply wanted to help. My mother was grateful and thanked him for his troubles. I could see a slight look of amusement as he examined the labels of the bottles and winked at me, as if knowing some great secret that no-one was supposed to know. In that instance,

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