epilogue: suite 506
There is an apartment, on a corner of a nondescript building in downtown Toronto, that lies dark and empty.
It's on a quiet corner of the fifth floor. If you look out the windows from the master's bedroom, you will see the lights of the Toronto Hilton elevators as they climb up and down the building. South on Simcoe Street, you will see the boarded up windows of Toronto's oldest hotel, as it lies waiting to know if it will be demolished or restored to its old grandeur.
If you lie awake at night, you will hear the constant hum of the city cleaners as they make their way through the streets of downtown -- an invisible army washing away all the dust and grime of the day to prepare Toronto for another sparkling day. Sometimes you can even watch them from the windows, as the water cannons blast away all the posters plastered to the lampposts and street signs. The water archs gracefully in the air, and, just as it hits the lampposts, bits and pieces of poster paper are obliterated into tiny specks of fiber floating in the night air.
On weekends, this sound is replaced by the excited drone of people on the way to parties, ready to dance and drink the stress of the week away. The streets bustle with people walking briskly in the cool night air, while long white limousines and police cars dot the traffic snaking through the city streets. In the dark, the police car's lights dance on the apartment's ceilings, a reminder that the world goes on even when your own life seems to be on pause.
The apartment lies silent now.
It has been scrubbed and cleaned and stripped of all its character, ready for its next occupants.
But, for four months in the year 2006, it bore the color and character of two people who lived within its walls and called it home. It watched as they grew and evolved, bearing witness as they ran through a gamut of emotions, from the awe and wonder of two strangers arriving in a foreign land, to falling in love, to the heartbreak of letting go.
It shared the joy of the countless people who shared those four months with them: of zinfandels and wine glasses clinking against each other in celebration; of late nights working and bemoaning the headaches of the job; of the warmth of visitors from home; of dinners and desserts and new concoctions in the kitchen; of laughs and screams and wine bottles slammed against the glass table; of kisses exchanged in blurry moments; of conversations that felt like nothing but meant everything.
It lies silent now.
In a few days, this apartment will become someone else's home. It will bear the character of someone else's life; of someone else's hopes, dreams, and aspirations.
It will forget the memory of the people who once lived here.
But I will never forget. It will always remain in my memory as it once was, in the four months I called it home.
It's on a quiet corner of the fifth floor. If you look out the windows from the master's bedroom, you will see the lights of the Toronto Hilton elevators as they climb up and down the building. South on Simcoe Street, you will see the boarded up windows of Toronto's oldest hotel, as it lies waiting to know if it will be demolished or restored to its old grandeur.
If you lie awake at night, you will hear the constant hum of the city cleaners as they make their way through the streets of downtown -- an invisible army washing away all the dust and grime of the day to prepare Toronto for another sparkling day. Sometimes you can even watch them from the windows, as the water cannons blast away all the posters plastered to the lampposts and street signs. The water archs gracefully in the air, and, just as it hits the lampposts, bits and pieces of poster paper are obliterated into tiny specks of fiber floating in the night air.
On weekends, this sound is replaced by the excited drone of people on the way to parties, ready to dance and drink the stress of the week away. The streets bustle with people walking briskly in the cool night air, while long white limousines and police cars dot the traffic snaking through the city streets. In the dark, the police car's lights dance on the apartment's ceilings, a reminder that the world goes on even when your own life seems to be on pause.
The apartment lies silent now.
It has been scrubbed and cleaned and stripped of all its character, ready for its next occupants.
But, for four months in the year 2006, it bore the color and character of two people who lived within its walls and called it home. It watched as they grew and evolved, bearing witness as they ran through a gamut of emotions, from the awe and wonder of two strangers arriving in a foreign land, to falling in love, to the heartbreak of letting go.
It shared the joy of the countless people who shared those four months with them: of zinfandels and wine glasses clinking against each other in celebration; of late nights working and bemoaning the headaches of the job; of the warmth of visitors from home; of dinners and desserts and new concoctions in the kitchen; of laughs and screams and wine bottles slammed against the glass table; of kisses exchanged in blurry moments; of conversations that felt like nothing but meant everything.
It lies silent now.
In a few days, this apartment will become someone else's home. It will bear the character of someone else's life; of someone else's hopes, dreams, and aspirations.
It will forget the memory of the people who once lived here.
But I will never forget. It will always remain in my memory as it once was, in the four months I called it home.
on
5:33 AM
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