A Canada Day Memory

I spent July 1st at our park listening to bands, eating food from food trucks and enjoying the diversity that has become our city—so very different than when I came here as a little one. I hope that every person finds what they need and want in this new place.

The evening ended with fireworks. The crowd was so animated that their squeals and screams at the fireworks made me laugh. When the fireworks display was finished we walked away through a sea of people. Thousands of us meandered away from a day of celebration exiting together.

On the path

Now if you like, play Lord Heron’s The Night We Met while you read on.

We grabbed hands and pivoted in spaces between people deciding to take the bike path that followed the creek away from festivities and back into neighborhoods. The crowd dispersed. As we walked we were fewer and fewer. A group of about a dozen. A couple were children—one in a wagon, tipped over, sleeping. The street lights were left behind the light less and less.

There is something about darkness that sometimes makes people quieter—more subdued. And that’s exactly what happened. Fewer words from all of us. In the partial silence, we heard Lord Heron’s song The Night We Met playing from a device of our newfound crew. It was just loud enough.

Our little gang became even quieter—for the song. Just a rhythmic crunching of our feet remained.

I am not the only traveler who has not repaid his debt.

This gentle rhythm filled the night matching our footfalls.

I’ve been searching for a trail to follow.

A rail, decorated with glow-in-the-dark bracelets—an illuminated marker that someone left before us indicating an edge. Another memory.

Take me back to the night we met.

Our pace slowed. The hurry of celebration left behind and I felt our group of strangers lean into the romance of the night: the song, the quiet, the dark, the creek and trees, the walk.

And then I can tell myself what the hell I’m supposed to do.

And then I can tell myself not to ride along with you.

A memory was born

This was just a walk. But, it is not lost on me that this is a moment I don’t have in winter—an experience that was the coming together of many things: the dark, the people, their silence, the cool night air, the song, the post celebratory vibrations and the soft tiredness that comes from a long day ending in a walk—summertime water, wind, frogs croaks, footsteps…a song.

I had all and then most of you
Some and now none of you
Take me back to the night we met
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do

He squeezed my hand. “I like this song.” He whispered.

I squeezed back. “I like this entire moment.”

Haunted by the ghost of you
Oh, take me back to the night we met

When the night was full of terrors
And your eyes were filled with tears
When you had not touched me yet
Oh, take me back to the night we met

The memory was born. I hope I remember this moment. But if I forget everything but a few seconds it’s okay. The significant parts—the sounds, the smells, the light, and most importantly the feeling hopefully stick and maybe this is how a memory is born. Held, cradled in my brain.

As always, thank you for reading lovelies. And, Happy Canaday Day.