Looking at the ocean through my living room window, I
remain amazed at my good fortune to have landed in this plum spot. People come
from all over to walk/drive along the water and here I am right across from it.
For me, Dallas Road has long been synonymous with the
moments “in between”, particularly when my arthritis was new and the then-CARS
(Canadian Arthritis and Rheumatism Society) was housed in the Cook Street
village. Three times a week, my mother would pick me up from school and take me
to physio. After my treatment, I’d sometimes ask if we could drive home along
Dallas Road. It was the longer route, but Mum often obliged.
To this day (if I’m not driving), I stare out the car
window and remember those drives—moments of limbo when I didn’t think or worry
or fear. I just watched for whitecaps on the waves.
I still do that. Now I can do it on my sofa with a cup
of tea and silly jazz playing, but I acutely remember riding in the big blue
Merc, being more intent on the colour of the sea than the state of my bones
and, in some way, being grateful for that moment.
How precious those moments were.
And are.
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