The truth be told, she did not survive the first border war all those months ago. We just never got around to telling her. Things were a bit hectic, and one more dead body interfering with daily life was not all that unusual. Of course the truth is that telling her would have meant getting a word in edgewise,which as a rule was not possible. But then the entire constant verbosity was not entirely uncommon among the dead at the time. There are, after all, a variety of deaths these days.
after the third border war, as the fences began to be built, even more clouds grew. Various conservative groups began lobbying against coffee,for varying reasons. And as the pressure grew coffehouses began to close, leaving fewer and fewer places for folk singers. Her guitar stood in a corner, gathering dust, with its case full of memories of late night conversations and long walks in the Green, of kind strangers and riding topless in the streets of South Carolina.
We actually did meet once. I had smuggled myself back across the border inside a contra bassoon case, one step ahead of the constables who were after me for selling whole bean coffee in the speakeasys that had taken the place of coffeehouses. We met at the Vancouver Terminal, for once not filled with soldiers moving back and forth across country during one of the myriad border wars. Flying in the early Summer air was the proud British Columbia flag, the two red bars flanking the cannabis leaf. He looked ever so dashing in his shining metal uniform, the sword hilt flashing from the regimental scabbard. He stood my drink of pure water and we talked for a minutes until we were off, I to the Island working undercover as a man of passion and he to one of those court things he held sway in. I heard later he spent several years lost in a book until it was remaindered, but that is a different story from a different teller.