Montréal

the snow tastes like maple syrup and almost 22 tastes like the crunching snow that is montreal unveiled in her winter of twisting trellis steps and brick façades that remind me of layer cakes lining glass bakery displays. and contoured face outlines and eclectic gift shop charms and exclusively-French street signs delicately litter the crevices of my mind like the brittle bagel crumbs that keep us fed and litter the car. time is manufactured but time is also a marker of movement: revolution of earth and our bodies and other bodies in constant gyrating gesticulation with one another. 22 just feels like another revolution around the sun. 22 feels like love and sometimes loneliness. 22 feels like being tethered to ground and then catapulted into the thick soupy darkness that is space and that is uncertainty. drink your chilled honey cider and crunch your boots in the milky snow and touch the surface of every pretty plant in the botanical garden because yes 22 is just another revolution of earth around the sun, but it’s also the revolution of you around the sun, and how do you want to spend this time moving around in continual circles attached to your pebbly orb of a home?