Is That All There Is?
By Peggy Lee
I remember when I was a very little girl, our house caught on fire.
I'll never forget the look on my father's face as he gathered me up
in his arms and raced through the burning building out to the pavement.
I stood there shivering in my pajamas and watched the whole world go up in flames.
And when it was all over I said to myself, "Is that all there is to a fire"
Is that all there is, is that all there is
If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing
Let's break out the booze and have a ball
If that's all there is
And when I was 12 years old, my father took me to a circus, the greatest show on earth.
There were clowns and elephants and dancing bears.
And a beautiful lady in pink tights flew high above our heads.
And so I sat there watching the marvelous spectacle.
I had the feeling that something was missing.
I don't know what, but when it was over,
I said to myself, "is that all there is to a circus?
Is that all there is, is that all there is
If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing
Let's break out the booze and have a ball
If that's all there is
Then I fell in love, head over heels in love, with the most wonderful boy in the world.
We would take long walks by the river or just sit for hours gazing into each other's eyes.
We were so very much in love.
Then one day he went away and I thought I'd die, but I didn't,
and when I didn't I said to myself, "is that all there is to love?"
Is that all there is, is that all there is
If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing
I know what you must be saying to yourselves,
if that's the way she feels about it why doesn't she just end it all?
Oh, no, not me. I'm in no hurry for that final disappointment,
for I know just as well as I'm standing here talking to you,
when that final moment comes and I'm breathing my lst breath, I'll be saying to myself
Is that all there is, is that all there is
If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing
Let's break out the booze and have a ball
If that's all there is
Chapter 1.
The public library had too many ears. It was not exactly quiet, with its whispered orchestra of slow footsteps and keyboard typing, but it was also not quiet enough for two people to discuss the end of their relationship. There was a persistent feeling hanging mid-air, as if someone would at any time walk through them as they ambiguously looked at each other in the middle of the long otherwise empty hallway spaced between each bookshelf. French literature. Portuguese literature. They looked at each other, each of the two painted over a canvas of plum red and olive green leather covers and dusty cursive vertical titles and light grey metal dividers. He was always taller than she was - height is not something one can change - but for some reason not today. In the present moment they were eye to eye, his blue iris and her brown iris. His eyes were big and at the very edge of tears, like lakes. One man and one woman looking at each other on a rainy day, on one of the very first days of spring where the air tastes like the objects in a room. Like an apple peel, like a carpet, like a wool coat. Everything emanated a slight scent. Standing in between the world literature section on the second floor of the public library, they spoke in half sentences. One would glance at the left to see if that was the sound of someone coming their way, one would look at their hands as if they were pages of a dictionary to consult for the exact word wanted to convey. It seemed rehearsed, like a contemporary dance choreography. They were also very beautiful, which gave it all the appearance of a still life painting. Like a bowl of fruit and insects or like a true theatre costume fitting, the light above them warm and dramatic. He looked very polished, like an office worker. Dark blue tweed jacket, brown briefcase. Underneath, a sliver of a cotton off-white dress shirt folding into his belt and trousers. Black leather shoes, a bit too pointed. He looked geometrical, his hair parted on the side and his gold-rimmed aviator eyeglasses balanced on a long nose. She was beautiful too, but in a different and sweeter way. One long braid untied, held together by will or memory of hair. Canadian tuxedo, full raw unwashed denim on denim. A polka dot red and white shoulder bag, held in between both of her hands in front of her buttoned up chest. Orange patent leather flats with a small bow. Every small detail, her straight posture and the crossing of her feet and the slight leaning back on the book covers; it all seemed as if she was running an errand, simply about to go elsewhere and not really bothered if someone interrupted but acting as if simply out of kindness.
“You said - you said I could remind you to call me or see me or plan things. I don’t want to remind you to love me. It’s not something I want to do for myself. There is no air here. I don’t think it’s raining anymore, maybe we can go on a walk.”
The pair walked in a line, her before him, towards one end of the bookshelf corridor.
His eyes were big, step after step leather shoes in mud. The park was one large pond of water and one table with benches on the centre. It was a quiet park near the university, in front of one of the classics inspired buildings. A row of towering columns of grey marble, and a current of students and teachers cutting through the park to go from one class to another. After the rainstorm, the flow of people was absent. The only voices rippling through the air were of the couple. A panorama shot into the scene, a wide angle lens and all one can see is an oval of olive tinted grass and polka dots of water. A couple of tall trees at the corners of the park, right before the fence facing the asphalt street. In the oval, there was a very sweet silence. It was almost as if all sound stayed in it untouched by the moving cars on one side or the threads of passengers on the other side. On sunny days couples and friends loved to sit at the feet of the trees, reading to each other or laughing or doing nothing. No regular benches, aside from the slightly off centre wooden table with a long bench on both sides. The rainstorm had left everyone asleep, the city was scared of ruining its attire and every bird was playing cards on the twigs above the clouds. It was quiet. The couple was swimming in the oval moving park, a sea of brown grass. Closer. Closer. Her lips were moving fast, lipstick drawn in a coral colour. The man was crying and one big tear falls on the wood, one as big as the puddle touching his trousers under the table. She looked at him with rising eyebrows, like one does with a child. Maybe she was waiting for him to stop crying and say something significant, maybe she was displeased at his crying or maybe even secretly flattered at his sorrow. There was a microscopic smile behind each word, hiding like a flashing light. Closer. Closer. One in front of the other, again. The girl - “You will find better. Smarter and more beautiful and kinder. You were funny and so smart and nice but so lazy. I don’t want to be loved like that. It’s not that it wasn’t love, but I want a different kind.” His hands held together, he stayed still shaking his head with a sigh. Every sentence she said, she said twice. Just to fill the time hanging and the space in between. Closer. Their faces were both pale, a little humid. An ant on her shoulder. His glasses somewhat wet but not fully yet. The scene goes silent, her lips are still moving and his hands still together. Lipreading, every word is a double. Now, they both laugh. She does first, then he looks up at her and smiles. The image oscillates, it’s grainy.
- I wrote this during the spring / summer of 2026, when I came back from Sweden. I paused my Master's in Political Science and missed Canada to the point of nausea. I thought I would write a book about a girl that moves away and realizes that the beauty of a city does not matter as much as she thought. She thought she could be loved for where she lived and not who she was. I am not sure anymore. Now that I am in and out of Parliament Hill I want to write something else. The other day I met an assistant that was so scared of being what she called "the leak", the one that accidentally gave away information on the Liberal Party to the press. I could tell she probably wasn't, just a neurotic type. But it was interesting! Maybe I can combine the two, maybe not.
Ottawa 28/9/26