There they are, full-on progressive lenses. My nemesis. That giant lens area is like a billowing white flag…the undeniable sign of surrendering style to comfort and practicality.
In addition to accepting rapidly declining eyesight, regular creaks and groans and the fact that my mothers hands have attached themselves to the ends of my arms, for the first time I felt the full force of a real Canadian winter, and it knocked me on my ass.
I’ve spent the past several weeks buried under a thick wool. The average temperature in these parts hovers around -30. It feels as though the sky has been a uniform grey for months. Today there’s a sunbeam falling across my desk and it’s like surfacing from a coma. I looked around at a pile of abandoned projects, blew the dust off and started to wade back in. Today I feel like high-fiving the universe. The end is nigh, the sun is returning and I’ve managed to make it this far without breaking a hip.
Today I can nod knowingly as I read Alden Nowlan’s poem Canadian January Night:
Canadian January Night
Ice storm: the hill
a pyramid of black crystal
down which the cars
slide like phosphorescent beetles
while I, walking backwards in obedience to the wind, am possessed
of the fearful knowledge
my compatriots share
but almost never utters
this is a country
where a man can die
simply from being