My Two Cents
August, 1996. Yorkville Sculpture Park, Toronto.

The water flows freely now, clinging to taut wires on its perpetual descent.

I sit once more in a garden that serves to mask destruction, deconstruction and decay. A mirror for my mask of studied, "appropriate" calm; itself a veneer for the still-fresh pain of loss.

I remember sitting here with you, Christmas shoppers bustling past, warmed by the annual consumer frenzy.

You again, sitting atop a man-made mound of rock, blonde tendrils tearing past the smoke of your angry cigarette. Somehow it seemed to me you were always waiting, patiently. As though you knew what the future would bring.

A couple pose for a photo in front of the fountain; "don't fall in the water". A moist midnight breeze kisses slowly forming tears.

I recall the frozen spikes of same fountain, in the sharp slant of March sunlight, the afternoon we burried you. Blowing soap bubbles twixt the icy fingers.

Some were to float through the gateway, shifting chameleon rainbows in the winter sunlight. Others held captive in the ice, as your memory is held here.

Here, we remain unstuck in time together. Greetings from the future. Wish you were here.

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