[27] The black, death dealing hand

Yesterday I pushed Johnny’s perambulator all the way up Procession Street as far as the Opera House. I’d been hearing that street through our north windows, from out of sight, and now I wanted to see it again. Mistake, with the pedestrians and the carts double-stopped on the pavement, and the black ice under the spindrift, and the shop doors catching in the wind in my face. I’m steadier on my feet these days, but I’m still not quick enough for this. We hid from the spear-tipped gale in a carriage gate, with me deep in my black hood and with my back to the world. I remembered how big this city was compared to me. Then I stared down at Johnny, who remembered nothing – just looked at me: What are you? And for a moment he was me and I the world entire.