Standing under the confused solution of this sky
I take in the rain. A woman whirls on a hoop.
The smokers under a canopy, coughing. Umbrellas
are useless, in this wind. Everyone is wet, faces
shining, rueful. Graffiti dissolves a question.
All the places we dreamed of living, and here
we are. This wide summary of cities,
itself and everywhere. I accept its rain.
TOK
Aisha Mama
It was a quiet hot afternoon as Aisha Mama told her story and people, both ghosts and the living, were gathered in their houses after lunch lying down in the cool shade. Hani and Kadijo moved close to their mother as she spoke and even their dead father got up from his distant spot and came and sat closer under the shade of the avocado tree. In the hush that covered the town Aisha Mama’s story poured out from her and spread. It was a sticky story.
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 7. Purchase the book to read the full piece.
The Building Blocks
I followed her off the train and out of the station to Eglinton West Avenue—“Little Caribbean” to those of us who knew it well. I loved everything about that neighbourhood, from the haphazard assortment of clothing shops to the soca or reggae that played in every other restaurant. Even the way people gathered on the sidewalks excited me, the way men and women would lean against brick walls and laugh and yell and tell stories with their hands. It was the only thing I liked about going over to Nana’s; her house was on a residential street just off the avenue and the trip there made everything a little bit worthwhile.
When we finally made it to her bungalow, it was around twelve thirty. She opened the door and I lingered in the entryway, dreading the moment I had to actually go inside. I was planning to stand in that entryway forever, or at least for as long as it took for my mother to come and rescue me. But when I made no sign of moving, she shoved me inside.
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 7. Purchase the book to read the full piece.
The Copyeditors
It had been a productive day. Not only had they stroked out a glaring, but previously undetected, redundancy from their lives, but they had also, in the early morning, spray-painted over the second l on the shop sign “Youthfull Flower Designs,” thereby ridding Toronto streets of one more error. Yesterday, from the grubby window of a westbound Dundas streetcar, Ben had spotted the superfluous letter and had jotted down the location. Today Will rattled the can and guided the nozzle into a curative curlicue. That’s how they divided tasks: one detecting, the other correcting. The perfect Copyediting duo, each with his own strength. Ben could find a misspelling in a haystack; Will could spot a comma splice a mile away.
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 7. Purchase the book to read the full piece.
Toronto/Week
Journey lights Advertisements Head Head Head Head He Window Window Window Window Win Ad Person Person Person Person Per ver Person Person Person Person Per tise Person Person Person Person Per leg leg leg leg Bag leg leg leg leg leg
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 7. Purchase the book to read the full piece.
Pack Your Temper
Cut the neck. At least once a week, Pa performed this gesture—a thumb sliced clean across his throat. When drivers cut him off, he would switch lanes, speed up and stare into their car until he got someone’s attention and that person would get a cut-the—neck. In the grocery store, when my older sister and I were lobbing bags of dried lentils at each other, one dose of Pa’s cut-the-neck stopped any further incidents of adolescent insanity. Then there was that stray cat who’d shit all over the dead rose bush. Pa would hide, wait and, when it arrived, shower the animal with Italian profanity before chasing it down the driveway with a cut-the-neck. His gesture became so commonplace to my family that it lost all impact. Not so for outsiders.