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Home on the Eddy

Smog shrouds what little sunlight we get in this season. The water laps on the worn concrete bricks along the eddy I call home.

Smog shrouds what little sunlight we get in this season. The water laps on the worn concrete bricks along the eddy I call home. Tiny apartments stacked, one on top of the other. I have called this waterway home ever since I can remember. I look around, shivering as I remember the many times these waters have brought death right to our door. Disease, those lost at sea, items lost – seemingly swallowed up and away from their proper owner only to appear bumping gently in the tide on my front stoop. And yet this little eddy is home. It is the space in which, if I lean just far enough out of my front window, I can hear the prayers of my neighbour rise to the sky. It is the place in which I have watched the sun rise and fall. It is the place in which meal after meal has been rowed next door, piping hot and ready to be shared. It is the place in which He has come to dwell among us.

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