Few things in life bring me more joy than a late-autumn cycle through the city.
There is something about the light; the way the sun seems to peek coyly from beneath lowered lids, stretching long shadows across everything. And the smell of the wind as it picks up and whips around my scarf while the leaves rattle alongside me on the road, a portent of the coming winter.
Winding through the streets of old Cabbagetown just as the sun sets I can feel the seam of where past meets present, reaching out with curling fingers like the edges of an old photograph.
In this in-between we are ghosts, me and my old lady. Dolores, I call her.
Together we coast along dark streets, peeking into laneways and leaded glass windows, and breathing in the smell of fires burning beneath soot-stained mantles that have seen many an evening such as this go by.
Invisible and invincible.