Snippets

Snow, friday, the day I stay home from work and imbibe coffee late into the afternoon. And it's the first snow of the season, and I sit on the back porch and let it dampen my clothing. And I notice snow weighing down trees that cling to autumn. And Meeka (the dog) and I run through the park, irrepressibly excited, saying "bonjour" to those I pass, because I expect snow to soften people, bleeding city hearts into camaraderie.

A man across the street stops in front of each house and snaps photos as if hoping to paste them all together into an impressive panoramic. I notice the flash. I wave when he passes from the neighboring house to stop in front of mine. It's a sort of poetic justice. But I still want him to know that I see him. This is how I fight back, acknowledging him. Because I intend to call the shots on espionage habits on rue St-Urbain.

I saw the man again. The man who's been leaving for weeks, but still hitches up and down St-Laurent street. He's the perpetual thumb-out, waiting for the 1960s to drive by and take him out west. But since my arrival, it seems all he can do is wash car windows at stop lights or march up and down, dog at his side, displaying his desires on cardboard.

I've been eating lots of ice cream. I've been watching lots of Six Feet Under episodes. I've been noticing how much I like walking when it's not raining, and how marvelous 37 degrees can feel when one has a nice sweater and a homemade scarf and a blue sky.