Bloor

On Bloor Street, a weathered man, who once might have been a California golden boy but was now sitting on a milk crate begging change, told me that I looked like Elvis Costello. I nodded, telling him that I got that a lot. He then asked if I had any money I could spare, adding that his wife and he were out on the street. “Today’s her birthday,” he said, “she’s 61,” his voice trailing off in a kind of disbelief now, his eyes disconnected.  I gave him the small amount of change I had, and as I turned away he shouted, “People do say you look like Elvis Costello, though? Right? It’s not just me? I’m not completely crazy, am I, I mean I’m not making stuff up in my head, right?”

And then, two new mothers, each one wearing sweat pants and with a baby strapped to her chest, walked serenely down the street. They were almost glowing, almost hovering, and they walked in geisha silence, as if having moved passed language to an inalienable home that would be forever present.