My second voice

It's cold. It is the third day that I wake up at 4 in the morning in this Central American town, which is fiery in the day and very cold after midnight. It's not like Toronto winter, but it's like those treacherous early spring mornings when the icy breeze coming from Lake Ontario catches you off guard. I wrap a scarf around my neck and press my fingers into the pockets of my jacket. My husband walks 4 or 5 meters in front of me. Behind, looking at the tips of my boots, I recite a poem that speaks of an indigenous woman who always walks slowly behind her stern man. Along the avenue a street repair is in progress. A worker in a helmet and vest who gives instructions to the others, sees me go by and approaches. I become irritated by him, but he only tells me what anyone would say: "It's cold, eh!". How nice! He looks like Robert Redford, an actor my mother liked. "Oh yes, it's cold," I manage to answer. The man walks beside me and talks to me. He...