November 15, 2010

The route line that incidentally spells CN. Outside our hotel window, that train, the bridge, my old home.

The street is busy, there are pretty girls in scarves and boots, leather jackets, bars. They haven’t yet torn down the place we lived, but changed the road and there is more glass and new buildings.

I left the room barefoot and woke after the second door sucked shut. There had been a  dead-easy pull.

And a humbling exchange with the night staff. Like a CAMH patient I was escorted in the elevator. He answered the door in his underwear, I pushed myself in, past his confusion.

It was the morning of your birthday.


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