Conversation

I walked past Leonard Cohen’s house, feet slicked with Montreal sludge and buffeted gutted frozen by minus 36 degree breezes. Did the very air make Cohen a storyteller? Did it imbue his words with their glitter coolness truth?

Milky winter light. Nose hairs frosted. My every exhale ice crystallized mist. A park bench where he sat with his shopping and poked fun at himself. Cars plowing face-first into arctic breath.

And I heard him whisper Hallelujah.

#smallstories