While crossing a street I wasn't sure when the raindrops and wind on the tape ended for my city's weather to take over. Maybe there was no division between the voices of my memory and those planted by The Woods telling me to "Wake up".
I stood on a small street corner with "Baleen Plate Lullaby" waiting for my friend, holding my umbrella in one hand and a case of beer in the other with the rain slowly soaking into the cardboard until i had to carry it under my arm.
We met up with his girlfriend down the street at a party and the three of us spent the night leaning against a coat closet drinking, talking and deflecting a statistician who was convinced my East Indian friend had squash skills that could rival Khan, a world champion player.
Later in the fall, I traced out a route that would take us deeper into the "foliage meter" which was a list of all the regions in Quebec and the percent coverage of the seasonal colours on their trees. Traveling from Montreal, 65%, to St. Donat at the Base of Mont-Tremblant, 85%, would prove to give heart attacks over every hill or through every turn that the highway gave us.
On the way home, my wiper blades couldn't brush off the nightly fog and received a sarcastic response that said "Welcome to the Woods". The story book album played on while she slept in the backseat and I secretly wished that my girl was there too.