I tell her not to pick me up tomorrow,
I have an interview. I check the map
to see which building the school is located in.
She started sniffing while we were
driving home from work. “Just allergies,” she said.
We stop for the red light. “You need to step up
getting out of stacking bundles
of flyers in that place. Your body might
get used to it. Pushing skids for the rest of your life.”
She goes on, along with the car. “I used to have
an office job in Toronto, back when I was single.
I interviewed immigration disputes,
a notch below legal stuff, I just transcribe stories.
Great pay, horrible experience.” We make a turn
at Lakeshore Road. “I remember a Chinese man
about to be deported because his wife filed
for a divorce. His status was tied to her. He had to
leave after nine years. Can you imagine?”
“Yes,” I answer, “I just read news of a man in Scarborough,
who had to leave for the Philippines because
he missed a court date.” I put my phone away.
I can see my apartment building. He’s never set foot there.
Grew up here, can’t speak a word.
It’s ridiculous. Good thing my husband earns a lot,
high-spirited laughter, I can stay in the warehouse
for extra income. “Are you sick,” I asked, “No, it’s the flowers.”
I looked at the dandelions, almost a sea of yellow
on the park to our left, beside the water.
After a loud sniff she said, “I fucking hate spring.”
