In Our Time

Just now, I'm sitting up in bed, surrounded by a cozy mess of soft cottons and down. A wall clock insists the precious seconds as they pass. Our rented studio is warm and shadowed in the early dusk of a brisk Montreal. Outside, a scooter crescendos by, momentarily drowning out the lilting French of two young women as they crunch through the yellowed fallen leaves on rue Laurier. Having just awoken from a long autumn's nap, I finally feel the urge to write, to begin to record our time away.


Up until now I've been reticent to do so, afraid I might break the spell that has encapsulated this time so far. Thinking if I turned to these pages, rejoining the world, that our purported night at the ball might become a Cinderellian jack-o'-lantern, past its prime with moldy eyes and blackened underbite.



But wait! Listen! This hasn't happened at all. Indeed, the magic of the last four days still lingers and the crackle of the next four still beckons. The clock keeps its rhythm and only the cold wind shifts the street's leaves. Long walks and good food remain, shopping, sleeping and exploring yet to do. Still uninterrupted time to talk clear to the end, without duties and responsibilities rudely interrupting. To wake with the sun and sleep when tired.

Tonight, dinner at O'Thym followed by a dry, windy walk back to our temporary home. Tomorrow? As of yet, who knows. A clean slate and open calendar -- the beauty and freedom of time owned.

**All photos taken in Westmount, Montreal, Quebec.