Dead Autumn Leaves

            On Friday morning it felt like I’d reached the hump of my cold. I still felt sick but I was a stronger than the previous morning. I was coughing more and though my singing range was somewhat affected, my voice was quite strong during song practice.

            I had to do laundry in the early afternoon. While I was taking my stuff out of the dryer, the guy that often walks along Queen Street shouting angry things about individuals, sometimes by name, sometimes saying “nigger” and always punctuating his rants by screaming an extended “Fuuuuck!” came into the Laundromat to ask people for $2 for a coffee. There was a Black woman folding her clothing at the back and he approached her, saying, “I’m trying to get $2 for a coffee”. She seemed to know him and said slowly and carefully, like she was talking to a child, “Jason, I’ll give you a dollar.” He didn’t seem to hear, because he repeated his request. She said, “Jason, I am going to give you a dollar.” He asked again and she responded the same way with only slight impatience. Jason finally understood and got his dollar before quietly leaving.

            I practiced playing “Dead Autumn Leaves”, my translation of Jacques Prevert’s “Les Feuilles Mortes” a few times in the evening but because of all the mucous in my throat, at one point my voice uncontrollably changed to a higher pitch as if I was going through some kind of reverse puberty.