The man in the alley, the people down the street.

There has been a man in the alley as of late. I noticed him one afternoon while I was obnoxiously blasting pop music with the windows open, preparing for a workout. In the afternoons he paces five feet, back and forth. Taking phone calls or smoking a cigarette. I notice now in the evening, he resides on a milk crate. Tonight I think he is smoking a joint. I’m not often home in the evenings, and more often now, I’m away throughout the day, too. Increasingly though I notice the parallels of our lives. As I lay on the couch beneath the large window with my book and Julian in the kitchen, cooking. He has noticed him too. His presence somehow comforting. And what are we to him? I hope a warm glow illuminates the alley in the grey area of dusk and evening, coming from our living room. I hope that the poetry and podcasts and sounds of our lives waft through the windows, still open, even though it is the equinox and the air has grown increasingly more chilled. 

This man in the alley reminds me of the days of lockdown. In that time, the only social closeness we had, in the physical world, was the closeness of neighbours. The laps of the streets surrounding our homes, passing familiar faces, faces of people stuck in the same place. Do we have that anymore? Perhaps there is something that we gain in stagnancy. This reminds me of moving, because for four years, I was in movement every august, switching house. And here I am in the same place, the same bedroom and laying on the same couch. And it kind of feels as though I can exhale, safely. Change is en route, it is the equinox after all. It is nearly my birthday, after all. Pulling back the layers of the last year, discarding them. Thinking about them. Thinking of the summer and how it always feels like a whirlwind, but this year in particular I don’t think I paused long enough to feel my feet on the ground, even though I was constantly running, swimming, surrounded by beautiful and present-beckoning moments.