The sound of the cat jumping off the bed. The smell of lemon-oil soap. The heart with its bleats and whinnies. The sound of the rain. The traffic moving through the alley–Smart Cars, bicycles, delivery trucks. At 3, children’s shouts. The white garage across the ally. The Spanish tile roof. The turquoise biffy for the workers at the laneway house that’s going up. The smell of cedar. The pressure-treated kick-plates. The man in the blue fleece carrying lumber, his white cap, his dangling keys. I live below grade and now, with my fence gone, my windows are peepholes.
Yesterday, I wrote the crisis in my novel The Lost Boy. I had no clue the book was going where it went, exploding where it exploded, but when it blew up, I thought, Of course, of course, nothing else was possible. Now I will wrap up the denouement, then I have to go back to feed in sub-plots and image motifs.
People push grocery carts past my windows and the fencer says I need to dig up more clematis for a reinforcing pole to go in. The condo board says no vines can be grown on the new fence.
I was surprised to discover bulbs coming up now, those crazy things, in December before winter has even started–hyacinths whose tender heads have been summarily stomped.