The 506

Outside my west facing window, the early morning sky is just starting to fade from black into velvet blue. I can hear the squeal and grind of the metal streetcar wheels as they turn off Dundas onto College. Theses streetcars run all night long shuffling the shift workers, the shiftless, and the party goers. The whining floats out over the rooftops in the still morning air and settles in the tight streets and alleyways. Instead of being annoyed by the sound, by the intrusion of it on my consciousness, I am comforted by it...

This streetcar line that runs between Main Street station in the east and Dundas West station in the west is a line drawn between our old neighbourhoods, our pasts, our childhoods, and the places where we grew up.

The squeal reminds me that there may be time and distance between our lives - a city can be wedged between us, worlds apart - but that there is some undeniable line that runs between our worlds... Though there was no way to know what it was or that it even existed, there it was... Every day that line runs... The way to you and your world... And at any time I might have boarded, ridden the distance, walked your streets... You might have found your way to mine... But it was not the right time yet...

I listen the the turning streetcars turning in the early morning. They tell me that there has always been a way to you, though I did not know it then. And I know that there is always a way to you now. And if ever I lose sight of you, I have only to ride whatever streetcar is sent.