It’s that glorious first burst of summer, heralded by the flash of newly-bared legs. Followed by the great unfurling of favourite places. It’s everyone’s picnic blanket about two feet apart and come night-time, the exotic invitation of heat in the dark.
It’s suddenly music everywhere: garage-band on the sidewalk, washboard in the park, some crazy folk just walk down the street singing at the top of their lungs. How is it possible that I’d forgotten about music in a place where every summer breeze carries a melody?
Because the seasons in this city are seasons of forgetting and every April we Montrealers make a pact to uphold this joint delusion that winter — what winter?
We don’t even believe in snow anymore.