The inside of my eyelids is a film I can’t turn off —

I’m back in Montreal, three apartments ago, cooking eggs after class in September by an open window, the leaves are turning shades of ochre —

I’m in a diner near the hospital, watching the waitresses serve blue drinks and burgers — I am 13 — I am in the parking lot —

I’m picnicking with Olivia on a grassy riverbank, someone’s private property — she ashes her cigarette as I look over my shoulder —

I’m at my grandparents’s house, listening to the world move — mom is on her way — the taste of the ice cubes —

I’m in preschool asking a classmate if orange he glad I didn’t say banana in a blurry hall outside an invisible classroom — the lattice in the pathway —

I’m quiet and empty, staring into my paper plate — my new relatives dance below the string-lit rafters of the barn —

I’m on a dock in Maine watching dad smoke a cigar under the lamps as we both look out, wordless, at the sleeping harbor — a celebrity has died —

I’m on Robert’s porch, a coyote sings through the moonlit pines, the Milky Way glistens between the branches — our tea is ready — I am stoned —

I’m walking down a beach in January with Zoe and her dog who runs ahead — the winter waves of a quiet Atlantic —

I’ve seen this film, I’m in it now.
I understand,
There’s nothing I can do.

≋

February 21, 2021
Saint-Jean-Baptiste, Québec City