My friends rock

Sunny sunday afternoon; this may be my last visit to Parc Lafontaine. It's been 'the last time' a lot these days. I'm getting a lump in my throat. Some lady just walked by holding a white cat. Two children giggle in an impromptu hammock behind me.

On the waterside rocks below me a woman with blonde dreads and two hyper sons strums a guitar covered in stickers. She sings 'Dear Prudence.' Her voice is sweet. With my chin on my knees I let my head fall to the left and watch the late afternoon sun sparkle through the fountain. The air is soft. I've brought a book but leave it unopened, deciding instead to let my 'last time' feeling keep me company. I'm thinking about last night's 'bon voyage' party. 'Til 3am we sat, torchlit and barely noticing the chill, eating weird snacks in no particular order and sipping 'fruity quebeckers' that my generous host concocted for this event only.

Pulling jackets tighter against the cool night, lighting smokes in unison, laughing over each other's border-crossing horror stories that included such highlights as: a vibrator; homeless drug-sniffing dogs on a canine WorkFare program; eating the acid; smuggling illegal immigrants in a Budget® rental car; a customs officer who was all but ready to subject a sleeping dog to a breathalizer, and German police officers yelling "dickhead! dickhead!"

The water is pretty and chick is strumming a tune I don't recognize. Some dude named Pablo has just walked up to me again and asked me for the third time if I want to smoke a joint with him. I decline. I'm smoking alone. Besides I'm deeply content to smile over my friends' most dear generosity that has left me with a wacked-out painting, a mild hangover, and a salty taste from the specially selected cheese that you have to eat with your hands and looks, for all the world, like creepy scary doll hair. I'm going to miss this. And the conversational meander that happens between intelligent quirky people, the crazy connections: the "no way, I have a 'being high and seeing a racoon' story too;" the 80s punk bands, the same awful drive-share guy with the photo album and the terror-inspiring driving habits. I'll miss sharing a taxi with a brand new friend that I wish I'd met ages ago.

I'm losing the sun now. Dreadlock lady must have taken her guitar and her boys home. I place my half-finished water bottle into my bag. It'll be time to walk back soon and finish packing the cartons I've been pilfering from the nearby shops and neighbours on recyling days.