Last night I walked by a sprinkler in the side yard of a beautiful old yellow heritage house in James Bay.
It was one of those old-fashioned sprinklers from the 60s that moves back and forth in pinstripe lines of needle-like water. You can adjust the stream so it fits in small spaces or turn the water on, full pressure, so it can move back and forth across a bigger expanse of lawn.
This sprinkler was on a very small rectangle patch of grass and some sort of lush greenery, tall grasses that blocked the view slightly past the fence, if I’m remembering correctly. The grass was mostly in shade, but with the soft light of 7 p.m. shining onto a dry patch of it.
The water, jetting out of the sprinkler, glinted in a stream of sunshine that hit it. And in my two seconds of passing, because I was walking fast, I was immediately transported back to a side yard at my house in New Westminster during my sixties childhood.
I could feel the needle stream of wetness on my legs, hear the joy of running under it, especially if my best friend was there. The trying to avoid the water, running straight through it, putting my foot on top of the stream to prevent it from hitting me. I could see a red bathing suit bottom, perhaps of my friend but I’m not sure, and the way it sagged at the butt when it got wet. I could feel my brother’s hands trying to push me into the water. And see him being silly, his face over the stream, his black hair dripping wet. Two seconds of passing this scene in a stranger’s yard and I was right back at eight years old in another yard, during another time with the same type of sprinkler and all those visual memories.
Is this what happens with aging?
When you’re 90, should you live that long, does every image become stacked upon the scenes you’ve kept your entire life, little vignettes and snapshots hidden away, awakened only by an image or experience in the present as if every day is a taste test of the most delicious 14-layer chocolate cake, the most painful collage of things you’ve tried to forget?