Sunlight spills across the window, filling my eyes with a radiance that enchants and pulls me to the panorama spread below. Light glints, sparkling twinkling diamond dances along the graceful sweep of needle of the Tower while in the distance, white caps sparkle and froth on a lake benign in the promise of warmth to come. Shadows dance and cavort across the façade of buildings, sliding and slipping and misting in the eddies of smoke belching from funnels, frosty breath giving lie to the promise of spring.
I mourn the dreary day which bleeds into dreary day, the monochromatic sameness of grey skies and the loss of shadows and an unending blend of greys and blacks and pale silver and the stained detritus of once pristine snow, and my mind forgets the clarity that light brings and the beauty of watching shadows prance and frolic and the contrast of dark and light which delights.
I remember those crisp days of before, when the smell of spring wafted on the cool breeze of still winter, but beneath, the smell of growing things tickled that part of us that is linked to the earth and the trickle and spill of water beneath banks piled high with snow and ice belie the reality of its frozen expanse and the sun blinds our eyes as we turn our pale faces to its golden caress and yearn towards its life-giving need.
Do I sense a thaw beneath the frozen landscape of a soul burrowed deep within, pulled tight and small to protect its fragile remains? I don’t know. I know that still my body slumbers and worry that its sleep is one of permanence, that like the slumbering princess of yore, it lies unknowing and untouched but outside the thorny wall of my denial there is no prince to wake me from the greyness of endless nothingingness into the glory of colour and sharpness of now.
Yet, yet… a trickle, a touch … a gossamer strand of maybe, delicate, fragile possibility …. I ponder the resiliency of the human spirit and think hope extinguished yet wonder still.
I yearn into the cool slick glass, and lay my forehead against the kiss of its cool surface and feel removed from the vibrant symphony of colour which delights and saddens at one and the same time.
I remember other crisp spring days, when the endless blue of sky wheeled above us, pristine and infinite and sunlight spilled and danced and wove a dance of cool golden light around our bodies. When your hand was warm in mine and our breaths still frosted in the Montreal sky but the sun’s embrace licked hope into our pallid cheeks.
I close my eyes and lean my cheek against the slick glass of memory and remember with piercing clarity the smells and sounds of Atwater Station. Cacophony of voices and swish of coat and squeak of shoes and the muttering, restless sound of crowds, crackle of static as trains are called and the vibrant, tugging pull of journeys and possibilities, surrounded we sit, with the buttery, rich smell of toast and mesmerizing lure of coffee wafting in air stained with the fumes of diesel and the chugging monochromatic chuffing of trains and screech of track and the day stretches before us, endless in its possibilities.
Such perfect moments in time I remember with a yearning which threatens to overwhelm, perfect clear moments in time when life right then, right at that moment, had such relevance and perfect meaning. Sitting beside you as you finished your and then my, thick, crisp, golden toast, butter dripping, laughing as I hand you a napkin and we sip hot sweetened coffee from stubby thick china cups, white porcelain with pale brown stains on the saucers where trickles of coffee slip over the thick lip and dribble down..
Hand in hand, wandering out into the thronging, busy city streets, cheeks flushed at the cool air, but buoyed in our souls with the sunlight which spills between the soaring towers and kisses pale gold into our eyes which meet and tangle and melt into each other’s souls.
Your hand in mine and the promise that life is returning to a cold city and the simple, indefinable joy of simply being, there, with you and the promise of your body, the feel of you against me as you lean over and your cold lips meet mine and our breaths, warm and fragrant, mingle and join and your tongue hot and insistent, claims my mouth and dances the dance until my nipples peak beneath my top and my legs tremble.
I want that simplicity again, that sense of complete happiness in the now. I want that. I want to feel my body waken and stretch and moisten and tremble before you. I want that certainty, that I am where I am meant to be. I want to simply be joyous in the moment without the detritus of broken dreams and promises not kept cluttering the moment and clouding the beauty of simply existing.