When I have this thought –
‘why do I always say these things’
In my mind I’m in the Ottawa Public Library Main Branch
Near the northwest door way of the second floor, standing near
the tables by the stacks
Looking out into the atrium
It’s the early 2000s
Maybe the earthy 1970s tilework is still there
That I ran my fingers along the ridges of in the 1980s on
the way to the children’s section
It smells like carpet and books and maybe body odour,
faintly
And fluorescent lights, but they are gentle, it’s like a cave
why there?
for these thoughts
‘why do I say these things that embarrass me later’
‘why am I so strange’
Now I’m in the foyer, the ceiling so high above me, pushing
through a metal turnstile in 1987;
small, with my mother, who is young also
Now I’m in the auditorium, in 2002, watching a political documentary
Now I’m down the street, at a drugstore with big glass windows at the base of a skyscraper, buying highly reflective lip gloss, in 1999
Now I’m on the bus, bundled up in winter clothes, heading home from high school, down Bank
Street, in 1997,
thinking
‘why am I like this’
I could roam my home town in my mind, street for street, for ever and ever
Endlessly asking myself why I am myself
But instead I'll open my eyes.
