UNTITLED

"They say our homes are kept in our hearts. She used to keep hers in the little red lunch box when she was a kid. Things got more complicated. She is sitting on a bench in Burgess Park, sucking in the cold and sterile air. But it is time to go, time to feed the marmot. Along Thurlow Street, through infinite troops of houses. Dark, gigantic troops. Sometimes they howl at her. Today they just stand and stare. The pattern on the pavement fades from light grey to dark grey. She is nearly there. More and more dark squares, less of the lighter ones that she is not allowed to step onto. She knows she does wrong. That she should sidestep each of those light grey squares. She used to do that. But they started to look at her when she got older. She started to hate to be looked at. (...)"