I was visiting Vancouver some years after having lived there, and was retracing the walk I used to take near my old house off Commercial Drive. It was all at hand again, though illuminated in that peculiar light that falls in a place one reenters as a former dwelling. Present, no longer tacit. There at the intersection by the bus stop, just as before, I recognized a man I had never known but had often passed. The same white hair, granite face, work shirt. And out of some habit that had no real origin I began to raise my arm and utter a greeting, but faltered. What does one say? Hey, we were strangers once. Remember? 

• christopher yates •