It's 1am and I pick up my phone to see a missed call from G. I call back, and a sleepy voice mumbles, "Good night, babe." Only our daily phone call, but it feels like I've missed something much bigger, like my night can't find closure.
So I pick up the new card that arrived in the mail and examine my own face. The long side-swept bangs, the yellow glow of the light, the turquoise top that I don't wear anymore. 2 years ago, an afternoon in hall, a chore to complete. I remember sitting in front of my laptop, arranging my fringe, angling my face for that photo.
I looked so young.
And then a flash of memory of me in a crowded room, too warm in my thick winter coat indoors, queuing to have my photo taken. Montreal, a shopping mall whose name I forget. I had to get my metro card done. But the image that comes to mind turns out to be the face on my McGill ID card.
McGill. Late winter, early spring. The air was still cold, some days chilly, some days biting cold. I was walking up the never-ending hill, panting when I finally reached where Rue Peel meets Pine Avenue. Another evening, another gym session, already a routine. Then the hike across the frozen field to get to Italian film class, where I'd always fall asleep, snug and warm after the workout and the walk in the cold.
I can almost smell the sweet scent of the first leaves and savour the surprise of the late April snow now. Rue Peel still meets Pine Avenue, like always. It's just me who took a different turn one day and never looked back. If roads have hearts by virtue of having a name, I wonder if they miss me, like an old friend whose name they forget.
Nostalgia, it's a strange feeling. I remember the heartaches and the homesickness of those days too. But I would be there again in a heartbeat, back at the same spot, the same song playing on my iPod. Because that's how nostalgia tastes, bittersweet.
