Coming home

Sliding into the car, ready to drive home from Toronto, I slip in one of the chill-out compilation discs Connor left with me. The first song stirs an ache. A fine drizzle blurs the windshield. I turn on the wipers.

My mother's clan, with Irish roots, got weepy about goodbyes. I take after Dad when it comes to showing feeling, but music releases it. This is also about family after all.

The grey highway winds under a grey dusk. I move through scattered traffic. Red tail lights drift past impassively. I wonder where all these secret people are driving, away or toward, somewhere or someone. Maybe if we could see the threads, we would think twice about cutting one another off.

Victoria Road winds around a pond shining with rain and reflected streetlights.

Coming into the apartment (faint fragrance of jasmine rice) I toss my bag heavily on the futon and turn on a light. The place is empty and silent, but I'm not alone. The computer boots up with a sluggish chuck-chuck.

On a journey of the heart, there's so much to see. And when the sky is dark, you'll be right here, right here with me. -from "Kissing" by Bliss

Love is a place where ego does not live. -from "Pedro" by Dahlia