vanishing point

Sunday nights are even quieter. After crossing the bridge the city changes and this is why I cross that bridge even in the darkness, because this particular metamorphasis is important. I'd go so far as to say it's necessary so that I might be able to keep going and come home clean.

On the city side of the bridge people have put their garbage bags out on the street for morning collection, overripe bananas and grass clippings leave dewdrops visible through the clear plastic bags, ready to be composted and made new again.

The streetlights are on, glowing lamps with warm halos of light. I run from halo to halo - and I can almost imagine it feels colder between them. There aren't many cars in this neighbourhood, particularly on a Sunday night, but I can still hear them, one by one on the newly built highway; when they cross they say hahhhhhhh.

On the other side of the bridge it becomes dark abruptly. No streetlights. My eyes adjust slowly and I alter my pace to avoid tripping where the road changes from smooth asphalt to gravel. The cars are too far away to hear now. Coyotes are crying. I whistle through my fingers so they know I'm here.

It's colder on this side, somehow, without the imaginary warmth of streetlights, and the stars are clear. I can hear the trees breathing. The city changes from indoor to outdoor and the metropolitan landscape abruptly becomes wild and fresh.

I change too. I am no longer an aging woman, favouring the right knee slightly and squinting with poor night vision. My gait becomes even, my breathing becomes deep and regular. My irises open and I can see everything in black and white. The knees are warmed up now, the backbone stretches long and I become tall. I am strong and I am tireless. My mind is clear and bright in the diminishing light.



I turn home after an hour, my eyes adjusting back to the brightness, becoming blind again. I feel like I am waking from a dream, a dream I wanted to be real.

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