A Quality of Light
“The scurry of the airport was irritating after my reverie and I felt compelled to flag a taxi so I could be alone with my thoughts.
“Where to, bub?” the cabbie asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Anywhere. Take me to the Parkdale area, I guess.”
“Sure thing. You a tourist?” he asked, eyeing me in the rearview mirror.
“No. Well, yes. Sort of.”
“Thought maybe. Parkdale really ain’t much of what you might call a tourist mecca. Sure you wouldn’t rather see the CN Tower? SkyDome? Yonge Street?”
“No,” I said. “Parkdale’s fine.”
Johnny had mentioned Parkdale once and I felt a need just then to have some physical connection to his life, however vague it might be. I wanted to see the schools he might have attended, doorways he may have walked through, parks he might have sat and read in, the streets he walked. There is, I believe, a part of all of us, born in our wounding, that wants to believe that there are answers to be found in the hollow faces of the buildings and places our loved ones once inhabited.
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