Cirrus

On a cool November day, sometimes the wind the night before clears the clouds and delays the rain and leaves a cloud-whipped blue sky. The sun tracking a low angle off south creates cold shadows and bright-warm clearings. The wind still gets cold down by the water.

The lamps in the parking lot feature odd decagonal tops; ten little panes of probably not glass in a ring containing whatever bulb setup the lamp uses.

The whole neighbourhood is bereft of parking, except for the big lot between the Planetarium and the music conservatory; almost unrestricted and totally, it sits half empty. I guess it’s not the season to be ambling about in the park next to the water.

Nearby are the city archives that we went to one time. Under the guise of some unimportant research, we were quickly distracted. Browsing old newspaper clippings to find out how some place came to its name: in the caption of the photo from an article about the middle-aged housewife and mother who killed herself there, in the very spot we often used as a fire pit. The very spot we were using as a fire pit on the fiftieth anniversary of her death, telling our friends the story while we sat in its vague warmth.

It’s been years since I’ve been to the planetarium. From the quasi-educational field trips in elementary school, to being the human sacrifices lying on the stage at the laser shows in my late teens and early twenties. The smoke from the smoke machine never did smell like piña colada anyway.