when you moved to a new city
when your dentist stayed in business
when you have an appointment
you go back there
(all the same)
◆
when you pick the longest path
to pass through the woods
to see where
to see
◆
(the woods and the little clearing where you would play with the trees all around and the cinder blocks at the edge and Avenue de la Renaissance with your house on the corner and the house of the Anglos across the street with the Anglos inevitably on the deck speaking loudly and inevitably English and further on Madame Avon’s house where it smelled like soup and you went looking for the smell of soup when you got home and found the door knocked down and even further on Boulevard du Curé-Labelle and the breakfast joint where you discovered the coffee you would grab before school like an adult and the Couche-Tard with the Subway and the smell of Subway you went looking for after school like a teenager and even further on Curé-Labelle the building of Sexy Rosie which was more like a shed than a building with its confusing sign SEXY ROSIE REPAIRS POOL PUMPS and its windows inevitably concealed by vertical blinds and the delivery bike inevitably outside the door and even further on the Scraire family’s vacuum store and their daughter your friend and across the street the Vinette family’s appliance store and their daughter your friend and even further on Boulevard Sainte-Rose with its dirty white sad green STUDIO SEX strip club whose blocked windows offered no view on the Sainte-Rose neighborhood and its craft fair in summer and the Sainte-Rose en Blanc festival in winter Sainte-Rose and the Berge des Baigneurs preserve bordering the Rivière des Mille Îles with no bather in the foamy brown water of the austere river bank and your school down the street and your church and your credit union branch and your other school and your optometrist and at last Rue des Patriotes at last your dentist at last the Bar La Clairière across the street with its distinctive smell that would pervade the sidewalk and the revelers who never failed to shout from the open second floor windows but at last your dentist at last La Pastèque the convenience store downstairs with its neon green door and its neon green window sills and outside the 72 bus stop with no bench for the people who would wait for the 72 and the people who would sit on the steps and the owner who would complain but at last your dentist at last her office upstairs her doorbell downstairs and the click of the door unlocking and the strident sound that would follow and the gray stairs inside and the arrow at the top pointing left and the dull door of the dull waiting room with its bland carpeting and its pink wallpaper with its white accents and its turquoise accents and the frames on top with Marc-Aurèle Fortin’s landscapes inside and the gray counter below with Josée the secretary inevitably behind and the gray chairs and the gray coffee tables and the gray basket with the blue shoe covers inside in winter and the rest of the time when it rained and the matching gray trash can and the books and the posters and the magazines and the brochures inevitably)
all that remains
◆
when you pass through the longest path
that passes through the woods
to see if
to see
◆
(houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and houses and asphalt and your house)
among others
◆
but
la Renaissance once more
and Curé-Labelle once more
and Sainte-Rose once more
and Des Patriotes once more
◆
(your house on the corner and the house of the Anglos across the street with no Anglos on the deck to speak loudly and English without anyone to speak and further on Madame Avon’s house which one was it what did it smell like when you found the door knocked down and even further on Curé-Labelle and the breakfast joint that serves dinner like an adult and the Couche-Tard with the Subway and the smell of Subway that makes you nauseous like a teenager and even further on Curé-Labelle the building of Sexy Rosie which despite improvements is still more like a renovated shed than a building with its confusing sign SEXY ROSIE REPAIRS POOL PUMPS inevitably and its windows concealed by printed vinyl SEXY WAITRESSES but no delivery bike outside the door no nothing and even further on the Scraire family’s vacuum store but where is their daughter your former friend and across the street the Vinette family’s appliance store but what became of their daughter your former friend and even further on Boulevard Sainte-Rose where the strip club evitably burned down and was evitably rebuilt under the sex-free name STUDIO 300 whose black windows still offer no view on the Sainte-Rose neighborhood and it’s fall and there is no festival on Sainte-Rose and the Berge des Baigneurs bordering the river with no bather in the foamy brown water of the rejuvenated up-to-date river bank and your school down the street is another school and your church no longer has you in its registers and your credit union branch is no longer yours and your other school is another school and your optometrist retired but at last Rue des Patriotes at last your dentist at last a gaping hole across the street where the Bar La Clairière evitably burned down with its distinctive smell and its second floor but where are the revelers who inevitably shouted from the windows but at last your dentist at last the sausage shop downstairs with its brown door and its brown window sills and its current European sandwich specials in the display case and outside the 73 bus stop which is also the 151 bus stop with a bench for the people who no longer wait for the 72 which no longer exists and no one on the bench and no one on the stairs and no one to complain)
all that’s left
◆
but
the dentist
at last
and the doorbell
once more
◆
(and the click of the door unlocking and the strident sound that follows and the gray stairs inside and the arrow at the top pointing left and the dull door of the dull waiting room with its bland carpeting and its pink wallpaper with its white accents and its turquoise accents and the frames on top with Marc-Aurèle Fortin’s landscapes inside and the gray counter below with Josée the secretary inevitably behind and the gray chairs and the gray coffee tables and the gray basket with the blue shoe covers inside in winter and the rest of the time when it rains and the matching gray trash can and the books and the posters and the magazines and the brochures inevitably)
the same ones
◆
and you look at the books
(the metallic one with world records
millennium edition)
and you look at the posters
(the one with the mime smoking his teeth hidden
his hand gloved)
and you look at the magazines
(the one with the woman smiling her teeth straight
her teeth white)
and you look at the brochures
(the one with the little girl her teeth sensitive
her cone of ice cream covered in caramel)
and you ask yourself
(are these new replicas
or the same ones as before)
◆
you pick up a brochure
it’s crumpled but
you don’t know
and you hear your name called
and the brochure in your pocket
◆
(the huge beige chair that’s right and the heavy beige bib that’s right and the X-rays that’s right and the stiff piece of plastic between your teeth that’s right and the poster you look at with your back straight your jaw clenched that’s right ARE YOU PREGNANT? THINK YOU MAY BE PREGNANT? PLEASE INFORM THE TECHNICIAN that’s right but you ask yourself the question here and now that’s right and the other posters that’s right the home-made home-printed ones designed to reassure you that’s right with their gradient lettering in the shape of a rainbow that’s right and their yellow smiley faces thumbs up that’s right and the exam room with the photos of the children you look at while waiting for the hygienist that’s right ADRIANA MATHYS LILI-ROSE their smiles and the cleaning and the hygienist with her questions while your mouth is wide open with her fingers inside and her instruments inside that’s right and the photos of the children you still look at while waiting for the dentist that’s right MATEO TATIANA JULES their smiles and at last the dentist at last with her questions that’s right school that’s right and your mother that’s right and no cavities and the smile but the photo she won’t take of you)
here and now
◆
when your teeth are all clean
when you’ve paid your bill
when you turn around
when you finally face the signboard
(THE CLINIC WILL BE CLOSED
NOVEMBER 5-20 EXCLUSIVELY
FOR RENOVATIONS)
◆
you don’t understand why
you take the brochure out of your pocket
you put it back in its place
crumpled
a vestige
◆
when you go down the gray stairs
when you run into the dentist’s husband
when he says hello there
when you say hello back
when for the first time
his temples gray
◆
when you set off
the sun sets too
you hadn’t noticed the passage
of time
◆
when you go back home
when you head somewhere new
to see where
not to see
◆
(yet you can’t help stopping by Bagel Ste-Rose for a dozen because they are inevitably the best and then Rue des Patriotes and a quick look at the storefront of Jean-Pierre II the shoemaker who always thought it best to call you mademoiselle and whom you always assumed was named Jean-Pierre II but you never thought of asking him for anything but shoelaces and insoles but had you known it was only the second Cordonnerie Jean-Pierre perhaps you would’ve asked him his name and even called him by it and perhaps he would’ve also called you by your name but you already had your insoles and shoelaces for quite some time and then Boulevard Marc-Aurèle-Fortin whose paintings you learned about in school and recognized at the dentist and further on the street with the over-the-top Halloween decorations where at the age of eleven you finally went trick-or-treating and that one house where they said aren’t you too old for this that’s right too old where was it again which one was it again and the École Curé-Antoine-Labelle that you call your school as if it was still yours as if it had ever been yours but inevitably there are other kids smoking within nine meters of the entrance who watch you as you walk past them past the two streets Rue Honoré-Mercier and Rue Roseval the two sides the punks and the preps the two irreconciliable clans maybe it’s still like that inevitably and further on Rue Renoyer where you won’t visit your mother’s childhood home which you only knew from photos you saw as a little girl and that one teacher you had who could hear your uncle playing drums through the windows as a little boy and your uncle is dead now and even further on Boulevard du Curé-Labelle and Greco on the corner with the best pizza according to your entire family and all the family reunions with the French fries and inevitably the liquor and even further on the end of Boulevard Marc-Aurèle-Fortin which turns into Avenue de la Renaissance which becomes Boulevard Sainte-Rose now yes with a McDonalds on the corner now yes and a ramp to Autoroute 15 now yes it’s amazing A-15 and it’s amazing that the last thing left to see is a rocket and a UFO)
all you have left
◆
you don’t understand why
but it’s time to say goodbye
until next time
(one toothbrush for the road)
Originally published in Cartographies II: Couronne Nord (La Mèche, 2017).
