365

jan.5.22

City lights brighten as the sky dims. Traffic sounds as busy now as it had during the middle of the day; it seems like everybody in this city has to keep going, always looking for somewhere to go. Where that is, even they don't know, but that doesn't stop them from going somewhere.

Sirens can be heard in the distance; if I had to guess, I'd say it's coming from Tamarack, or across Central near Alpine Village. Cops patrol that area obsessively, because they know they'll find something there. They always do, which has taught the regular street goer to look over his shoulder and keep his ears clear; as soon as they hear the gravel-clad street crunch beneath three thousand dollar tires, they know to duck in alleys and shadows. Less likely to be found there.

Cigarette butts litter the cracked sidewalk beneath my feet; I wish I had one now. I don't smoke, but if it'll help me calm my nerves, I'd have one.

A warm breeze runs through me, rustling the drying leaves on the cottonwoods and poplars on Connought Hill; drawn caws from a murder of ravens can be heard under the sirens. They're bidding good night to the sun, hoping to see it tomorrow.

I press the crosswalk button and wait anxiously; I can feel eyes on me, coming from a truck waiting for his light. His windows are down, blaring loud music with bass so scratchy I can't tell what it is. As soon as the light turns green, he floors it, laughing as he passes me because he made me jump.

My heart beats in my ears; I can feel a kick drum beneath my ribs. I wish my head didn't feel like it was trapped in a vice, getting tighter and tighter with each step.

I pass the main youth centre office; as I pass the dim windows, I can see a custodian vacuuming the carpet of the circle space. He looks like he's taking the most care in his work. It's like he's at peace, tidying the carpet.

Walking to the building beside the youth centre office, I come to a front porch of a door: a small step off the sidewalk, under a canopy. This building is the only one on the block that looks like this. Red and rust brickwork puts me at ease in its familiarity. Two glass doors and a big paned window on each side stop the step from going too far. Inside those doors is heaven.

Only one light is on inside: it's the fog lights from the kitchen, behind two sets of wooden doors with a round window in each panel. Its warm orange glow casts itself along the checkerboard floor, the green crisscross railing, and a bit over by the set of mismatched couches. It even reaches the stage in the corner behind the sofas, but still not enough to take it out of the shadows.

But it's too early to go inside; the church bells on Queensway ring five times. It's only five o'clock. I have another hour before these doors will open.

Leaning against the corner, I sit with my knees up; at my angle, I can see up the hill toward Queensway, and watch the cars sway up and down the street that stretches there.

My heart slows in its fear; I'm here at my heaven, even if I'm not through its doors. I am here, and I am safe.