me and mr.young

Everything is golden, and the saxophone melts into the hot, heavy air.

I sit beside my father on a concrete bench as the jazz band plays away. He taps his fingers, happy to be in his old neighborhood, full of Greek stores and restaurants, listening to his favorite music. I'm happy to be there with him.

When the band takes a break we go walking. We walk down streets lined with trees, where my dad shows me a house he used to live in. As I try and imagine my dad unlocking the front door in bellbottoms, a man comes out of his garden.

My dad and the owner of the house discuss past residents, and he is kind enough to show us his beautiful back yard. We ask for a good authentic Greek restaurant, and he recommends a small mama and pops kind of place down the road.

Soon we're sitting on a small back patio with plastic chairs, feasting on hummus, eggplant, calamari, grape leaves stuffed with rice and hot grilled pita. By the time our Greek salads arrive our stomachs are full and we order a strong Greek liqueur to help it all go down.

Bellies content, we wander the streets, pick through novels in a small bookstore, and re-visit our childhoods in a bright, multicolored candy store.

The days are as long as our conversations. My father can turn most things into an adventure, whether it's hunting down good food, great music, or taking me up to the top of the CN tower, where we listen to the hum of the city.

We leave the candy store with a bag full of goodies and walk down the sidewalk laughing. I tap dance in the subway. Caught between the child I used to be and the woman I've become, I am happy.