Sunday

It's 9 am, and I'm leaving someone's apartment in Commonwealth. I'm slightly hung-over. I pass by a building I've not seen since I ran an errand there 2 years ago. Has it been so long?

On the covered walkway to the station I notice that all the people passing by are old. They are returning from the market, no longer invisible to me.

An elderly man, lower lip touching his nose, clutching a bundle of pink flowers wrapped in newspaper. A stooped, ancient woman with a bag of cucumbers and jet black hair. An indian lady in red the colour of her secret parcel, her forehead smeared with tumeric.

The east-bound approaches, heading to town. It's filled with church-goers and people my age, all dressed up. Some of them listen to music, others hold hands. It's a beautiful Sunday. I wait for the opposite train.