At The Fountain

Dedicated to everyone affected by COVID-19

Last year, at the Eaton Centre fountain
my son Henry made a wish, threw in a dime
That moment seems far away, like the fantasy novels
he’s starting to consume
His fire-orange soccer cleats
have no purpose these days
Julie, my straw-haired baby girl
can’t bathe in the sun’s golden rays
(I try to wash her, but once she comes near water
all she does is squeal)
We watch the wave at sports games on television,
large crowds mingling on Netflix
players high five
in my living room

vision narrows to a pinhole
No way to avoid domestic strife
I am shaken by the loss of control
The bitter wind
cuts through me like a scythe
(I shudder, shiver, slowly freeze)
The whistling reminds me of my mother
So kind and so small
Her presence lingers like a ghost
Her tombstone—faded, crumbling—ruins me
The shrill beckoning of her lunch call
to my brother
and I
The oil-black grease
around my bicycle chain
keeps staining my hands

I wander, like a man half-crazed and
think of a cross on an ancient hill

Text: Kendall Grant