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I hate the cold. It’s always so cold in Bourbonnais this time of the season. Rain, sleet, snow, ice… I hate nights like these.
The scent of freshly-made candy-corn and cinnamon rolls lingers as if it has been suspended in the air, frozen by the chill of the night. I’m reminded of how hungry I am by the rumbling in my stomach. The bulb in the solitary street lamp above the Homestar Bank looks like a star when I squint my eyes- almost as if it’s the Sun of the night, a guide to the downtown area.
The snowplough goes by, sheering away the blanket of snow covering the paved streets while cutting off the side of the snow bank. Layers of snow, sand, rocks, ice and dirt are piled upon one another, each distinct and unlike the one preceding, acting as a diary of the elements in winter this year.
I kick a small chunk of ice across the sidewalk, into the metal sewer grate. When I was younger, it was at this exact grate that I’d sit on the curb, dropping small pebbles into the sewer, counting how long it took before I heard the splash. Two seconds.
Every single mailbox I pass is painted neon orange- the kind you see on a school crossing guard’s vest, as if warning the addressed individual not to retrieve the mail. It’s mostly bills, notices, and junk mail. No one ever mails me for the sake of good conversation with warm, flowing handwriting, and perfected letters, complete with dotted I’s and crossed T’s. Well, it’s not as though I get mail anyway. Only once a month, but I have to pick that up, so I guess it really isn’t the same.
Walking, I pass a small restaurant, shuffling my feet as I notice the cigarette butts scattered along the crevices in the sidewalk. I miss the smell of my Sunday breakfasts with my grandmother. Puff after puff, she would tell me every exciting detail that happened the night before in the operating room. Women weren’t allowed to be doctors then, but I always promised I’d be a nurse just like her. Grandma Marpessa believed in ambition and aspiration. I believed in a good breakfast.
The restaurant’s neighbouring building always has a wonderful display set up. Every day, on the way home from my last lecture back when I was in college, I would always window shop. I’d be even more motivated to finish my education, so I could afford the things I would see in the windows. Only at night do I like window shopping now. Alone, hands pressed against the glass, I feel even more envious of those who can afford such beautiful things.
Finally, I see it. Green, and empty- it’s always empty by this time. Most people sit there after the last showing of a movie over a cup of coffee. Sometimes I wait across the street pretending I am one of them, laughing and enjoying the last couple of sips. Resting my head in the crease of the inside of my elbow, I sprawl out across the wooden boards and metal backing. This bench is home for me now, just until morning. It’s just so cold outside. I hate the cold.
Let's end poverty Canada.
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Phil Fry
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