The way home

Rode the early train home from Windsor this morning and kept my eyes peeled on a flaming sun that rose violet, amber and tangerine behind a squadron of dark trees. My eyes, weak with sleep, wrestled to stay open because it all looked so pretty, so goddamn peaceful, out there on the other side of the dusty windowpane.

I felt happy and thankful for a lovely weekend with my kin. We celebrated resurrection with a turkey and chocolate eggs wrapped in fluorescent tinfoil. On Sunday, we dug a hole in the ground and planted a lavender hydrangea bush at my father's marble plaque in the churchyard. I silently thanked him (my dad) for being my dad and for all the lessons he taught me during the fifteen years we shared together.

At 10:10 am, the train chugged into Union Station and I was glad to be home, back in this chaotic, glittering city.

I met up with Emily in Rosedale for a run after work. I was exhausted, but oh well; the run re-energized me and I was glad I did it. On our way home from the subway station, we passed a crime scene. It looked exactly like they do in the movies, or on CSI: the policemen, the fire trucks, the ominous ambulance and the yellow tape surrounding the site, alluding to danger. We shuffled by, horrified to see thick pools of blood glistening on the pavement. It was fresh - the wounds, the violence, even the spectators who gathered and recounted what they had seen or spun theories about what they had missed. There was a stabbing here, but we didn't know that yet. Someone was strapped to a stretcher in the back of the ambulance, out of sight, but his white sneakers, coated now in blood (his own? the attacker's? a morbid splattering of both?) were left on the sidewalk. There was a single sock there, too, missing its mate. At least there weren't any faces for our brains to remember, no open wounds to dwell on.

We walked home, disturbed and shocked into silence. We told Catherine what we saw. We checked the radio, television and Internet for details, but no one had updates. Finally, 15 minutes later, we heard that it was a stabbing. No other information was available at this time. A stabbing, right over there. Can you see? Right there, next to the corner where you wait for the bus every morning.

We sat at the kitchen table and ate dinner with friends. Old friends. Good, solid-gold, true-blue friends. Conversation was easy and comfortable; the grilled food was delicious. We laughed and chatted and gossiped like we always do. For the most part, we'd already accepted that violence erupted just around the corner from our cozy home.

It's bedtime now. Or probably past it if we're going to be dead honest. The early rise this morning will probably screw up my sleeping schedule for the rest of the week. I call my brother. He is playing video games in Windsor and he reminds me that I left my scarf at his apartment this morning. That is so characteristic of me it's almost frightening. My forgetfulness is as predictable as Time. The shower I took at 5:00 am seems like a lifetime ago. I nestle into a bed with clean sheets and am thankful to have made it here, finally, after a very full day.