Even after the construction has finished, we are placed there.
As a reminder that construction occurred there.
As if a smooth patch of road or pavement was not enough.
As if the 50 shades of asphalt on the roads of Montreal were not enough.
To hint at the culmination of repeated construction.
Perhaps the story hasn’t ended yet.
The superior powers might have other plans for us or this street.
We wouldn’t be forcefully evicted from the spot we’ve stood in for years.
Regardless of the weather.
You might have also seen our cousins.
From maternal and paternal sides.
Some prompt you to cut your speed.
Others force you to squeeze through a narrow path.
Are there more of us than the cars in Montreal?
More than the inhabitants of Montreal?
Thankfully, we never pay taxes to exist in this city.
We live rent-free.
Instead, our producer and distributor are paid.
To have us placed randomly across the city.
No one comes to collect us.
Construction workers place us even within their construction sites.
As if even they need a constant reminder.
It’s not over yet.
We used to symbolize imminent development.
Or a sigh of relief.
Finally, something broken will be fixed.
Today, we are synonymous with nuisance.
Construction season and bumpy roads.
The annoyance you feel as you drive or bike or walk.
Through the beautiful streets of Montreal.
And see us dutifully doing our job.
Looking busy, doing nothing.
We go hand in hand with gentrification.
We apologize Griffintown.
You were promised to be the crowning jewel of waterfront development.
Only to receive glass towers, broken pavements, and minuscule sunset views.
The only warmth you notice is our bright orange colour.
Montrealers take us to their homes as souvenirs.
Some throw us over into the canal.
Aspiring to be rebellious pioneers.
Others treat us like the Stanley cup trophy.
For a moment, at least.
They forget all the pain we embody.
Yes, we guide you home at night.
And through the detours during the day.
Through the fog and rain.
Through the slushy salty winters.
Through all the seasons.
We are responsible for separating highway lanes for years.
Despite it all, we are not separated from our family.
From our kids and our ancestors.
We are kept together, throughout.
Stacked in a row like spice bottles. Salt and pepper shakers.
In mini congregations like Friday prayers or Sunday masses.
Packed like small terrasses in summer or silent discos at Tam Tams.
We have company in your collective suffering.
No social distancing for us.
Pandemic or no pandemic.
10-minute city or 30-minute city.
We are not designed to be moved.
Or removed.
If you are in a wheelchair or with a stroller.
We greet you on the pavements and curb cuts.
With our sleepover buddies — garbage, compost, and recycling cans.
At least, you have wheels, to turn around and take another inaccessible path.
We hold our ground and stand tall.
With the changing weather and the political climate.
Our shiny silver stripes serve their purpose.
Protecting us from you.
With so much orange, what’s the silver lining?
Perhaps people will stop leasing and buying cars.
They will realize how non-sensical it is to drive through Montreal.
No need to have a discourse about electric vehicles.
Or self-driving ones.
Or a network of charging stations.
The pain from our existence will prevail.
Regardless of your vehicle choice.
We will stand clear, on the fringes.
Witnessing your helplessness in all this.
At times, having an existential crisis of our own.
What will happen to us when we are no longer needed?
When we have aged or a part of us is not usable?
Will we be cremated and further contribute to carbon emissions?
Buried in a landfill to lazily decompose over centuries?
Be transported to some other province or country?
Ones in desperate need of symbols of development?
We hope it’s a place where people of all cultures integrate us.
Where we are not constantly noticed yet ignored.
Perhaps after many years of not being used.
Once we are banned like the plastic bags.
And replaced with even thicker plastic cones.
Painted in green.
Someone will find us in a landfill.
Re-use us and Montreal’s collective trauma.
Revive us in a spectacular art piece.
And call it sustainability.
Gently reminding you of our purpose.
Cogs in this grand machine that moves at a glacial speed.
We are now a proud and quintessential symbol of Montreal.
A city, competing itself in a one-legged race to be fully constructed.
And universally accessible.
We are the minions of the city.
Rendering every
pedestrian,
wheelchair user,
poussette-pusher,
white-cane holder,
neurodiverse individual,
biker,
and driver
catatonic.
