I came out of Christie Pits subway station, just down from the long term care facility that my family and I toured with Mom.
She might be in there if she were still alive.
I walked along the north side of Bloor Street, headed west, toward our old apartment.
It was the first place either of us called our own.
The park was crowded for that time of night. People were spilling onto the sidewalk: couples, families, friends in groups. The moon was bright, it seemed so close, suspended between the buildings over Bloor.
It gave the city a silver glow and drew my attention.
Then it occurred to me, it was in the wrong end of the sky.
As I watched, blood began to drip down it, smooth and thick, like wild honey being poured out of a jar.
The light reflected through and
for a brief moment
had a crimson veneer.
The people looked up and spoke without panic.
Some pointed, others lifted small children onto their shoulders so they could see over the crowd.
The blood thickened until all illumination surrendered to it.
Even the streetlights and the houses were cloaked in darkness.
The world was pitch black.
I could still hear voices, though.
Clear and calm.
But, I couldn’t make out what they were saying,
because they all spoke at once.
Then . . . silence.
I was suspended in a void.
The blood ran off the moon.
Everyone just continued as they were before.
It was like the show was over and the only one left devastated by the story, setting and characters, or who found it troubling, was me.