I love this time of night, when the relative silence of the streets is broken by the regular roar of dragsters ripping down Merivale Road. If I were to drive over to the Zellers’ parking lot, I’d see bikes and old cars, many with their hoods up, their owners chatting with each other about their passion. Some will race off; most will drive carefully, quietly, content in the knowledge that their machine can run circles around most other vehicles on the road.
For me, safe in my house, it’s an audible reminder that there’s another world just three blocks away. I wonder if the noise from their accelerations make it into my sons’ dreams.
The night is mine. My sons are sleeping, peacefully. My wife is out, enjoying a well-deserved celebratory dinner for students she has supervised in the past year. They graduate tomorrow, and I’m reminded of her own grad dinner, five years ago. Funny how it seems mountains have been raised and fallen in that time. We’ve lived through so much, suffered through so much. She has accomplished a lot; I don’t know if I have. And so I sit, wondering if tonight is a night where I’ll reach forward and grasp some accomplishment, some creative task, or if I’ll slip back and let procrastination and melancholy overwhelm.
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