A little while ago, John informed me that he sent me a package and that I should be expecting something to arrive. I wasn’t home when it came, so it was sent to the nearest, “most convenient” mail hub, further south and downtown, which was a little out of the way, really.

A few days later, I decided to make a trip downtown to retrieve this package. There was a post-work session before I headed out, and I was peaking by the time I got to the bus stop. Admittedly, I was a little excited, because gift-giving is completely out of John’s nature. What could he possibly have sent me? I wanted to find out myself so I never asked him the details.

It rained the entire day, but the precipitation stopped by the time I was outside. The sun was still out, and turned the sky a hazy purplish-red, almost as if the entire world had been through an apocalypse, save one Canadian city. The pavement was still wet and buildings were streaking with their dark colours stretching towards the ground. I started seeing geometry, shapes, lines patterns, movement matching up as I passed. Everything turned into puzzle pieces, aligning themselves before me.

And on the way back, I sat on the bus with my package next to me, unopened, anxious to get home.

Sometimes, the colour of the sky, the moisture in the air, the smell of the wind, even the briskness of the cold will bring me back to another day. A day that’s indescribable, from an almost forgotten childhood. These are the days that are felt, not remembered, when emotion and mood overpowers action.

The yellow toys of kindergarten. Bliss. The skylight of the Brother Andre library. Warmth. The deafening silence on the hiking trail to Rattlesnake. Humility. The dense spread of stars in the sky from the cottage at Bruce Beach. Complete bewilderment. The rattle of John’s Explorer door when slammed. Comforting familiarity. Waiting for the bus during early spring on the corner of Nadine and Hollingham. Nervousness. Lunches on the bleachers at UCC. Depression. Walking Ashley home, hand-in-hand, on the warm summer nights. Pure contentment. Stepping out of the theatre after a showing of Equus. Buzz.

Every time I’m brought back, I can remember exactly how I felt, but nothing of what I did.

I like to sleep with my window open slightly when the weather goes above 1°C.

It’s the dead of winter, and the wind chill is -45°C. People exhale in large bursts of humidity, as not even ones breathing can be kept to themselves. Any exposed skin is sore after ten seconds. Is this better than a humidex of 42°C? I haven’t decided yet.

The weather these last two weeks has been wet and dull, though not unpleasant. It’s just beginning to turn a stark Canadian cold. The sun is out, the pavement is salted, but the sky feels too dry for precipitation. I can smell the battery acid in the air, letting me know that snow is almost here.