Armand can bring the past to me in a way my other sons do not. When Armand was born, he weighed three pounds. You would not guess this now. In those days, a three-pound baby did not always survive.

People come and go at a great rate here. Last week Monsieur Paquin died. Again, Armand had me snorting, though I felt sad about Monsieur Paquin, with whom I have danced. Armand reminded me Monsieur Paquin once had a fruit stall. He sold peaches and pears.

“Remember,” Armand found us some egg sandwiches at the funeral reception, “what Monsieur Paquin told me about packing peaches?”

When Armand was twelve, he sold Monsieur Paquin’s peaches door to door, in a cart. In the mornings he took the peaches from crates and put them in bags.

“No one will notice if you put one rotting peach in the bag, but if you put two in, they will say something.”

“That’s right. He put one bad peach into every single bag he ever sold.”

When Armand told his wife that story, she thought less of Monsieur Paquin when she saw him coming and going in these halls, on her infrequent visits. Over peaches he sold almost half a century ago. Do you see what I mean about my son’s wife? There are a lot worse things a man can do than put one rotten peach in every bag. She is something of a dreamer, that one. She imagines my son can live with her for the rest of his life in the city. She does not realize Monsieur Paquin’s habit of cheating his customers with the peaches is funny.

Armand opened a tin of cashews. “Madame Poirer’s dog was named Dentelle, and it was forbidden to leave home.” We both knew our dog, Alphonse Daudet, had the run of the entire town of Abercorn. There was no place in town off limits to Alphonse Daudet. “And — do you remember, Maman, that Madame Poirer put a chastity belt on her dog?”

A chastity belt! Who knew there was such a thing for dogs? These were the heights to which Madame Poirer, in her new-found social stature, with her husband’s school bus fleet, had risen.

The cashews are something I like to keep on hand. When my older sons visit, it is all business. It is about my bills being paid, and my signature on statements giving power of attorney to the eldest in the event my reason fails me, and arrangements to do with extra services. They think I need someone paid to look in on me. I dislike it when the paid visitor barges in. My older sons do not take me to Walmart, or buy small stepladders so I can climb into their passenger seats, or drive me over the Vermont border to see the splendour of the leaves. Armand and I go to Tim Hortons, where I have chicken noodle soup, then we go to Walmart and I stock up on my cashews, and on M&Ms for my grandchildren. Armand never washes his van. I have given him money in an envelope and told him to go to a car wash and spend that money on washing his van.

“But Madame Poirer discovered Alphonse Daudet in her attic, do you remember, Maman? And he had torn the chastity belt off Dentelle.”

“And Alphonse Daudet made Dentelle pregnant.”

Armand can never find a parking space close to Walmart’s door, so he lets me off and I wait. I lean on my stick. There are times I have to wait ten minutes, the parking lots are so full. While I am waiting I look at young people go by, and I remember lost romance, which is a thing I regret about this whole business of growing old.

There was a bakery in Vermont where we all used to get peanut butter pie. The bakery had a worker who looked at me and flashed an instant of electricity. Every time, until one day — I don’t know what happened — maybe I skipped a summer or something died in him, or in me, but one day he was no longer generous with his electricity. He was no younger than I was, but he did not want to waste an electron on me any longer. I saw him flirt with a younger woman. Much younger than himself, but is life fair?

Armand brings me something that is not the old days or their romance, but what he brings me is … there is an ointment my husband used to put on the udders of our cows. It came in a yellow tin. Romance departed and its spot gaped raw — I wouldn’t tell this to just anyone — and nothing came to heal it. That is old age for you. But the laughter Armand and I enjoy is salve on that spot. Is this strange? Of course I do not mean I am in romantic love with my son.

“And Madame Poirer made Dentelle have an abortion.”

“I never knew that, Maman.”

“And then Alphonse Daudet got in her attic with Dentelle again. He took the chastity belt off her again, and got her pregnant a second time.”