the picture of suburbia is a bright robin’s egg blue t-shirt two months, two years, two decades off the shelf of any shop in the world. fresh cooked steak spice wafting out through cracked-open and screened-in townhouse windows. september’s sun sets slowly. seven-oh-five-p-m. your new neighbours are walking their groceries home. the breeze kicks up enough to blow in the taste of autumn leaves, of beckoning home for dinner, of the distant hum of highway traffic, of a family trip to the park drawn to a close: i wish i could capture this moment in a value village mason jar. handwritten label faded just enough ink to still read chili flakes or paprika—just enough to know that where my fingers curl around the curve, they interlock with the ghost of a mother holding a ball-point pen, twisting for the best angle in the seven-oh-five-p-m slow september sunset
