Today I do not have to go where I go Everyday.
It is pouring rain when my child walks in the door of his school. The sky was nasty, grey, dark.
I hid under the covers until noon.
I watch the sunlight stream through front window; five minutes after 12. I marvel the bluest of skies and puffy white clouds.
Canada has been so colourless lately.
But when I step out my door, the wind wants to knock me over and I want to run in to hide back under my covers.
But I have to pay my rent.
I write on the bus for the first time in a long time.
Lately, I have been having to read, instead.
"Would you like to do your banking online?" the bank teller says, too grandly. I wait for him to sweep his arm in an arc. He grins, and waits for my answer.
I grin back. "No."
"I can get you a password, right now!"
"No, that's okay. I would forget it."
He taps my cable bill.
"It might make you remember other things,' he cocks an eyebrow at me.
I raise my eyebrow at him.
"Shut-up, Steve," I say, and we laugh.
Wet snow is falling on the ground, slick with purpose and a plop as it hits the ground, as I leave the bank.
I see Gord in the grocery store.
His big, big belly. His white, white beard. He looks like a dopey elf.
We meet up at the bus stop, too.
"What are you reading there, Elizabeth?" he asks.
"John Berger. It's all about sight, Gord," I sigh.
"Elizabeth, do you know about existentialism?"
I roll my eyes.
"Boy," I say. "Do I ever."
"I was reading Jean-Paul Sartre..."
"Shut-up, Gord," I say, and we laugh.
The sky is ice grey.
Amber and I listen to the kids scream. And run. And jump.
My son falls and it is seriously the biggest goose egg I have ever seen.
Then Amber and I listen to the kids scream. And run. And jump. Again.
We eat tacos.
We do not shut-up.
We laugh.
It is pouring rain when my child walks in the door of his school. The sky was nasty, grey, dark.
I hid under the covers until noon.
I watch the sunlight stream through front window; five minutes after 12. I marvel the bluest of skies and puffy white clouds.
Canada has been so colourless lately.
But when I step out my door, the wind wants to knock me over and I want to run in to hide back under my covers.
But I have to pay my rent.
I write on the bus for the first time in a long time.
Lately, I have been having to read, instead.
"Would you like to do your banking online?" the bank teller says, too grandly. I wait for him to sweep his arm in an arc. He grins, and waits for my answer.
I grin back. "No."
"I can get you a password, right now!"
"No, that's okay. I would forget it."
He taps my cable bill.
"It might make you remember other things,' he cocks an eyebrow at me.
I raise my eyebrow at him.
"Shut-up, Steve," I say, and we laugh.
Wet snow is falling on the ground, slick with purpose and a plop as it hits the ground, as I leave the bank.
I see Gord in the grocery store.
His big, big belly. His white, white beard. He looks like a dopey elf.
We meet up at the bus stop, too.
"What are you reading there, Elizabeth?" he asks.
"John Berger. It's all about sight, Gord," I sigh.
"Elizabeth, do you know about existentialism?"
I roll my eyes.
"Boy," I say. "Do I ever."
"I was reading Jean-Paul Sartre..."
"Shut-up, Gord," I say, and we laugh.
The sky is ice grey.
Amber and I listen to the kids scream. And run. And jump.
My son falls and it is seriously the biggest goose egg I have ever seen.
Then Amber and I listen to the kids scream. And run. And jump. Again.
We eat tacos.
We do not shut-up.
We laugh.
Comments
I am happy it has almost melted.
Q