Christmas time, 1976 ...
after complines -
My fractal like shadow slides alone across
the snow covered cement walkway of Yonge Street
as a gentle snowfall eclipses this neon filled night.
The sounds of my footsteps,
carved by my now worn construction boots,
are amplified by the absence of shoppers and taxis,
hookers and pimps,
delinquents and drunks ...
The stroll of the loner .
To my right I sense the presence of a human outline
leaning against a wall near Mr. Submarine ... ma ... mi sembra un mendicante ... His almost soundless request for money is met by my sudden stop ... and I turn towards him ... and I can only notice his deeply scarred weathered hands, the cracked and bleeding skin, his enlarged knuckles. An unbuttoned old beige rawhide coat adorns his lightly covered muscular body, his brownish hair shades a surprising countenance ... eyes of sky blue rising above his chapped lips ... My one and only question being met with indecision I escort him into the nearby deli that he may have his fill albeit before the disdained look of a disgruntled owner ... Repeated attempts at a conversation were blocked by walls and walls of silence. The feeling of uneasiness grew into helplessness before the piercing gaze of this soul searching nomad. His quick steps follow mine as I step out into the fresh and now unblemished snow. Turning to him I surrender my newest pair of sheepskin lined leather gloves, - gft from my parents at Yuletime. As I fit these covers around his hands ... an unexpected utterance,- the faint whisper of a "thank you" reaches my muffled ears and my vision turns to the snow below. A moment later I realized that he vanished ... he was gone ... there was no wind ... there were no footsteps ... but only the feeling that it was a test.