He was grey and old, sitting slumped, looking over his bi-focals in his comb over, complaining to another streetcar passenger about the good Ole days before all the Polish people moved out of Ronchaisvailles for Mississauga.

I tried to imagine him as a younger man and failed. It was like when I was young. I saw older people as being like that always. Like they were born that way.

When do they get that comfortable? I never have. I am probably older than he is now…

I stay silent and write in the still center while the world spins around me.