It's a sweet and salty thing to come home. I've been in Toronto on and off for six months. The city is the same, few surprises and everything is the same, like autumn, which you smell long before the leaves change colour. And yet everything is different.
Friends have multiple babies and hundreds of commitments, it might be six weeks before we get together. Juggling nap times. My colleagues progress exponentially in their workplaces. Does every Rye grad work at the CBC except me? Yes, yes they do. Or they are writing screenplays that will be bought by Endeavour and they will make millions and never cry again and live in gumdrop land and never cry again. I want that life.
I went to AMC to see The Secret Life of Bees. What I really should be doing is looking for work or plucking story ideas out the areas of my mind that remember what it means to hold a full-time job. Instead I dropped Danial off at Pearson, Kamran at daycare, and went to see a odd duck of a film. Don't look for a review here.
At 4:30 I collected Kamran from daycare and he dropped the book he was reading and came running to me. He made a sweet, sharp inhalation of breath and toddled over with his six-tooth-grin, drooling, arms askew, hair in his eyes, paint all over his clothes. He fell into my arms and stroked my hair. Since he's a toddler it was more like a wolverine showing me affection and it was honest and loving and adorable. "Buy byeeeee" he waved to the caregivers and we hoofed it out of there.