He sang Gershwin as we strolled down Montreal sidewalks, past budding trees confined to boulevard boxes, where dogs peed against them, and trash swirled around them, trees that would have a better chance in forests, but were still plucky in their snug quarters.
He held my hand. We kissed on Rue Saint-Jacques. I melted. In the glow of a streetlamp, his blue eyes flickered.
He left me when the ground was icy, when winds whipped my hair over my eyes, when leaves tumbled and were crushed underfoot.
Come spring, he returned, as seasons do. It seemed we needed the sun.