This was my calling on the corner of Rue Boucher and Rue Drolet just around yesterday's sunset on Friday, March 17th.

This was my calling on the corner
of Rue Boucher and Rue Drolet
just around yesterday’s sunset
on Friday,
March 17th.

“Natasha,”

she yelled,
up to the window
of the fifth or sixth balcony
of a tall building.

“Natasha.”

Tall
for her old age,
the woman was wide,
wearing a long brown coat
and a dark green hat
and glasses.

“Nata-sha.”

Everybody watched,

but nobody did anything.

I looked at the building,

labelled
habitation
and something about
the golden age
of elderly people.

“Natasha.”

To me

it seemed unlikely
that the door
would be locked.

I crossed rue Boucher.

“Ça va?”

I asked the woman
who was looking for
Natasha.

“Pas clef,”

she said.
No key.

I walked her around

to the front of the building,
pulled on the door and it opened.

“C’est ouvert,”

it is open,
I remarked.                                                     

We walked in together.

“Merci,”
said the woman
who was looking for
Natasha.
“Très gentille.”

This was my calling
on the corner
of Rue Boucher and Rue Drolet
just around yesterday’s sunset
on Friday,
March 17th.

Every once in a while
the doors you seek to walk through
are already open.

The End.





This is Simon's building
in the summer.
Natasha does not live here.


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This is just me giving myself grace on the corner of Saint Laurent and Saint Viateur at 3 P.M. on a Tuesday
What does it mean to be well
They smile at the sidewalks even though it's cold as balls and they must remain on leashes.