story #8: feels like -36°C
story #8: feels like -36°C
location: duluth between st. laurent and parc jeanne-mance
There is a light that reminds you of the warm days of spring:
It is the light of a warming sun preparing its rest with the clear embrace of the city's streets.
It is that warm light nearing the hue of a blushing pink that strokes the cheek of a timid building, holding itself as still as possible in the midst of the blowing wind.
There is a light that reminds you of the warm days of spring:
It is the light of a warming heart preparing itself for the dance to take place in its home so soon.
It is that warm heart watching the static turn electric, as the people buzz by more frantically by the minute, as if mania thrived only in 30+ degrees or 30- degrees. Nevertheless, the blushing red streaks the cheeks of these lively people, whether it be from the humidity or the wind's chill.
There is a light that reminds you of the warm days of spring:
It is the light of a warming home preparing its hospitality for the visiting of the night's stories.
It is that warm home listening to the neighbours passing time in their kitchens, as the people are heard passing by on their pavements, as the lovers hear the roads being passed by people. Precisely, it is the moment when you hear the city's presence in the silence of your home that you begin to remember how much you really belong.
For I recognize the light that reminds us of the warm days to come:
Springing out of this light is the warm days of our memories that know us well in tune with this city.
It is the warm days where weeks sprawl on endlessly, on a blanket of green grass surviving the burial under sheets of snow, where berries and drinks care for us in the prayer of the sun's focus, and we walk barefoot on the pavements that are as much home as our rented apartments, those that we have carved a life in for the single year of our changing lease, where everything has changed for what can remain the same in 30+ degrees and 30- degrees, in humidity or the wind's chill.
There is a light that reminds you of the warm days of spring:
It is the light of a warming sun pushing its release further beyond the clock's hands -- so long, eclipse.
It is in that warm light that holds you in the middle of the day, that you remember what warm days are soon to return to you, as a gift for your housewarming being celebrated between all the neighbours of this city, that you cannot help but proclaim the love you feel for this city,
so you hold your hand out to blow your kiss, and upon your fingertips the sun discovers the delicate skin frozen, thawed, and red, and the warm light kisses the sacrifice you have been offering all winter thus far.
On such days, I have a near-clairvoyant belief that this certain light's presence is an omen to be noticed, at which preparations must be made for what enchanting days are to return and once more grant us, the humble servants of this city, the summers of Montréal that the world knows to be of heaven.
(Of this past week, there have been 7 days of -30 degrees; yet, each have whispered this secret of the light we know loves us so, and is to come home again and join us once more.)