Walking home.

Angel,

It is a beautiful, clear but cool fall evening. In the heart of the city we have moulded and hammered earth and iron into glass clad towers. Limestone and polished marble buildings rise above the narrow streets, making the horizon vertical. On the street in late October, the only sky I can see is fragmented tracks of blue. It is just enough to let a sliver of dying sunlight lean up against the building on the corner. People waiting for the King car huddle in that brief warmth turning their faces to the sun, necks craned and coats opened up. Outside of that privileged patch, people draw themselves in, their breath visible in small white puffs.

I do not wait for the streetcar but make my way west along King, following the sun and blue ribbon of sky above me. I do not get far before the sun slides down beyond the lip of the world – in October the sun does not linger but sets fast. The temperature drops as the sky darkens at an alarming rate. Already the headlights, street lamps, and traffic signals shine with a harsh bright beauty. The cold air seems to splinter the light, makes it sharper in the eye.

Along King, past the tallest of buildings, past theatres and the street patios of restaurant row; past condos and parkettes; past the more moneyed part of the city, the buildings are older and shorter. Out of the city center, the heights of the buildings become lower; from the skyscrapers down to high-rises and finally down to two storied brick buildings of a bygone age. As King Street rises up and the buildings are shorter, one would expect the sky to become larger. One would expect a more open feel to the city, the kind of openness that comes with an expanding horizon.

The sky here is definitely larger then among the downtown skyscrapers - but it doesn’t feel like it. Here the sky feels close to the ground; more like a ceiling than an infinite expanse. Here everything is hunkered down and held close. Car tires slapping on rails, the distinctive streetcar squeal and grind and even my own footsteps sound loud and contained. There is a harsh brashness to the lights and sounds of this part of the city – perhaps it is the unexpected darkness and cold that has changed this street.

People waiting for busses or streetcars, stepping out from the glare of fast food restaurants into the street, and those of us trudging along the pale pavement have all pulled into ourselves. We do not look up. We do not greet each other. We simply drift past each other, lost to ourselves. It is as if we have collectively braced ourselves, holding our breath and waiting for something… It will be the first snowfall, or a wild wind – or perhaps it will wait until the magic of Christmas stirs us…

It is the harsh season – and we are waiting for it to break. We are waiting to exhale.

Just me.