Feeling balloons

Right on schedule, the homeless man set up his magazine and roll of paper towels in the corner of our garden. It seems to be his Sunday ritual.

I love taking cabs, head leaning back, gazing at life flicking past. Safe, cocooned. If the drivers want to talk, we talk, I like to find out about the country they left for Canada, and what they think. Most come from Haiti or Lebanon. On Friday night, leaving work, last as usual, we drove slowly through the dimming streets. A blind man was standing poised to cross the road. In his hands, he held the strings to an enormous bunch of helium balloons. Red, yellow, white, pink. The strings to happiness.