“Walk with me,” she said. He glanced over his shoulder. She shrugged and walked away. He shifted, as if to follow, but rocked back with reluctance.
She didn’t pause, didn’t glance back.
When she’d turned the corner, he decided. He hurried, hungry and urgent. He pursued her.
“Mom!” he cried.
Wanda Jane is as Canadian as the Shield, and as resilient. She was born in Nova Scotia, back in the day, and has lived in four of the ten provinces. She intends to visit the North. Wanda writes for many of the reasons you can think of and some you probably wouldn’t. Words are the guitar strings, the tubes of oil paints, and the perfume of life. She experiments with genres, structure, and style. A day-to-day acquaintance with Wanda would reveal a woman who spends a lot of time listening, struggles with the obstacles of living, and drinks deeply of the companionship she shares with her several friends.