Conceive

A minute passes, and the date changes. 0:00am, on August 3. Thirty years ago, “Nothing Broken but My Heart” was released in Canada. Ancra, Catherine, Louise, and I left Montreal, but not before I watched the sunrise at the Old Port. I wept, my quota for the week. In my older age, I find it easier to let myself be moved by silly things. Hurrah for that, I say.

I text Tara that I wrote the ending of The Wind at Dawn. She replies within a minute, making fun of me for picking today of all days. I smile to myself, and put away my phone. I include this to show the reader that life goes on, that everything passes. My life is tragic, but triumphant too. Every life has triumph in the works.

With that said, I end my story here. The rest of my life is left to history. In less than six hours, the sunrise will arrive. 5:41am, Google says. I shall set an alarm for 5:30am. (The ringtone is the Nokia waltz.) I shall stay awake — my quota for the month — to read Alice Munro’s Runaway, and watch the Japanese film Drive My Car if I have time. When dawn arrives, I shall plant a kiss on my wife’s forehead. I shall do the same to my daughters, then go downstairs to the lobby and step outside. I will be greeted by Old Montreal in waning twilight. Steps away, the John Young Monument; steps farther, Alexandra Basin.

The sunrise, when it comes, shall last two minutes. For two minutes, life shall be but a dream.