There are two women who meet every morning on my bus. They always look happy to see each other. One looks like she’s about fifty, handsome and rather plain looking. The other one could be anywhere between sixty and seventy, she has a snow-white hair and wears funky clothes, the kind I hope I will be wearing when I am her age. They ride a few stops together, then the younger one gets off and the older one stays to ride all the way to the REM station and to Montreal. I am witnessing the daily meeting of these women with a kind of quiet gratitude one feels seeing the rising of the sun. I read that ancient Mayas were quite suspicious of the sun, believing him to be a cruel and capricious god (something to do with living in an earthquake-prone area). So, they made sacrifices to make sure the sun keeps rising. There is a tiny Mayan part in me, always anxious about the sunrise, always grateful at being granted another day. I see these women on the bus and remember that in Ohenton Karihwatehkwa, The words before all else, we thank first for the people.

Winter is coming and I feel like it will be long. I want to huddle with people and feel their bodies, their warmth, their solid form. At times like these, when everything is volatile and covered in darkness, our bodies, their textures, our smells of skin and sweat and perfume, our sheer physicality may be the best antidote to despair.