The fresh upholstery has barely settled into the frame, yet the vantage point carries the weight of nearly three decades. Below the balcony rail, the Fraser rolls past with the steady clamour of railway freights and working tugs, entirely indifferent to the human hours passing above it. A new piece of furniture simply assumes the duty of the post, inheriting the daily habit of watching the river run toward the strait.
At sixty-seven, the mathematics of the calendar become impossible to ignore. The years accumulated in the rear-view mirror clearly outnumber the miles visible ahead, yet the machine is running cleanly and the journey remains well in hand. Twenty-eight years anchored to this single living room have witnessed long flights across oceans, desert crossings, and restless departures, but the home coordinates remain immovable. Time accelerates whether one submits to routine or resists it, stacking birthdays with an unnerving, brisk efficiency. Paying that steady admission fee is the only sensible bargain available, because it keeps a person firmly on the cushions, perfectly intact, and watching the tides from the Strait of Georgia drive upriver to wrestle with the Fraser current.