I hear crackling steps on leather soles,

steady and light, up the wood stairs of our

duplex on Snowden’s Lacombe Avenue.

Depression style oak and gumwood,

pebbled plaster walls, French style balconies.

Solly is now at the wood gate, top of

the stairs. He smells of work and hay.

Face and neck covered in shadow shapes,

yet safe. I call my mother.

“The usual two dozen extra-large”, she asks,

“Double yolks, if you have”.

Solly hands me the eggs,

his egg-shaped adam’s apple bouncing

to the rhythm of his voice. Two quarters and

a dime she studies in her palm. They kibitz

in Yiddish/English. He asks about family.

Always.

I run down the stairs after he leaves.

Check out the neighborhood.

Mostly brick four-plexes line Lacombe to Décarie,

my best busy street, before they sunk an expressway

in its belly and tore up my streetcar line in ‘59.

Décarie is lined with my favorites:

RBI Richstone Bakery, Queen Mary Barbershop,

Snowden Deli, City and District Savings Bank,

the art deco Snowden movie theatre.

Some hear cacophonous all-day traffic with

horn adoring Québeckers. I don’t hear noise,

just familiar music that picks up my pace.

This is my town.