We are gathered here



A solemn scene surprised me this afternoon as I took the turn on Ravine Dr. and pointed for the 142 St. bridge. It shook me. It spoke the visual grammar of the ceremony at a graveside.

What I witnessed was the protocol of the aftermath of an automobile collision.

The sky was smeared with mascara grey clouds.

At the head of the procession sat a flatbed truck. It would soon be loaded with the damaged body.



Three people stood on the lawn. They looked up and down, this way and that. They swayed back and forth like metronomes. One held his arms crossed over his chest. Vehicles streamed by on 142 St. The sky sagged. This sudden congress was in no one's plans. 




On the sidewalk, apart from the standing congregation, clad in black jeans and hoodie, holding his hands over his eyes, lay, outstretched, a man consumed by an event that cannot be undone. 

I held my breath and pedalled through. 




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