Montréal, ma ville

Montreal. These streets. Sidewalk stepping, pothole dodging, stride stride strut and look at me. I breathe this city.

The city is full of my ghosts. Here comes one now, sliding down the escalators at McGill metro, dodging the pointy bits, a huge bruise down one leg from poorly timed metrobatics. She owns that metro, that escalator. There she goes, clutching her black box with capital letters F.A.C.E. stamped across the front - quick we're going to be late for choir, don't forget your clarinet, my mom would kill me. Pink shorts and a haircut off to the Imperial for Return of the Jedi (a date? is it a date?) and the happy innocence of ice cream on St-Laurent. Run run run and collapse in giggles in the Carré St-Louis, but be careful there, its dodgy. The city takes care of me. Knee deep in city water, pants rolled up high fishing out money from the fountain in Old Montreal, nobody ever said a word. One day, I made two dollars and 25 cents, which goes a long way at the dep, especially a dep that reeks of old beer and cigarettes and rat droppings. First bicycle, a blue one, secondhand (we were immigrants), 3 speed, but wait, who is that driving the taxi and what does he have in his hand? Don't go closer, must go closer, what is he doing with his hand and what is he asking me, what is he doing with his hand what is he doing with his hand what is he doing with his hand, pedal hard and pedal fast. The city also teaches.

Fast forward and pause. Young, adult and back in the centretown, back on St-Laurent with the cockroach store with the stinky leather jackets and the badass shoes, steep incline, past the trendy sophisticated restos where my bro works valet, a quick nod down Prince Arthur, but focused up the Main past Warshaw (RIP). I no longer live these streets, my hood is elsewhere now, gentrified, middle class, with a driveway. But these streets remember me, and they grit and grind at my passing, recognizing me as a daughter. The city breathes me.