I turn the corner on the Humber pedestrian bridge just north of Dundas. I’m conscious of the sound of my sneakers hitting the wooden slats and the gentle lapping of the water against the concrete bridge supports a short distance below. Usually the bridge is alive with the sounds of kids’ laughter at the benches mid-way across and the rumble of cyclists ignoring the “dismount” signs as they gain speed on the straightaway before the steep incline into the Lambton Woods. I’ve just come down that hill, mercifully free from cyclists, runners, or other pedestrians. 

But I never expected a fully deserted bridge on a Saturday afternoon in August. I pause for a moment, take a selfie (it’s 2021 - did it happen if I don’t have a selfie to post?) and stop to listen more attentively: gentle distant thunder; a freight train about to cross on the tracks high above; birds. Yes, many, many birds, so often drowned out by human sound. I hear geese and the squawk of seagulls and other birdsong one day I hope to be able to identify. Add it to the never-ending list of things I still want to learn. 

I walk to the empty benches in the middle of the bridge. Drops of rain water have beaded up on the green paint, weather worn and graffitied. Not fancying a wet bum, I stand instead and look north towards Weston, my home. Other than some intrepid golfers across the river and around the bend on the northward track and a couple of solo cyclists, I saw nothing on my trek here. I still see no-one. Turning to look southward, some condos mar the horizon and I see a tire submerged in the river. Otherwise, nothing, no obvious signs of the 3 million humans who live around me in Toronto. 

I retrace my steps across the bridge and up the hill, more keenly aware of my solitude, senses heightened. I stop to watch the train cross, just visible through the trees, glad I’m not underneath it which would make me nervous, as though somehow it would jump the tracks and fall from that height. These kinds of pointless worries often occupy me. A rustle of branches across the path alerts me to a squirrel in the final stage of some death-defying leap from one tree to another. Whew, he makes it. The sunlight from above brings the forest floor alive with pale light but it’s fading. In counterpoint, there’s a growing pitter-patter of rainfall on the birch leaves high above, stopping, then starting again, this time more intensely. I walk on, and then, magically the rain stops just as I emerge into a clearing. I spot a beaver’s chew-marks on a felled tree - I missed it on my way to the bridge. There’s a rabbit ahead on the path, running as though it’s as happy as I am to be alone. The humidity makes the air thick and smell loamy.

At various points, I meet three cyclists, a jogger, and two middle aged couples. We all nod, heads down, hurrying. The pedestrians, like me, have umbrellas at the ready but not yet unfurled. Cyclists have the look of people who wish they’d brought rain gear. The jogger watches the ground carefully to avoid slipping on greasy pavement. All keeping an ear out for the thunder, as it gets louder. As I close in on the parking lot, I pass two family gatherings, their picnicking accoutrement spread wide but they themselves gathering tight under shelters. I wonder - were they there when I passed half an hour ago? They must have been because I smell charcoal and grilling meat. I feel for them, their parties likely to be cut short, perhaps before those burgers are cooked through.

I pass the bench where, less than three years ago, I sat beside Jack in his wheelchair, our last outing before he died. This is not the first time I’ve been here since widowhood, but this is the first time I feel deliciously alone. I think about other, busier, Saturday trips down here. Those solo walks didn’t feel delicious. They made me feel lonely and sad. Am I only lonely when I see others being together? 

I ponder this question for a few moments as I drive back home, rain falling in earnest now. I leave the heavy thought for another day and start planning dinner - charcuterie board for one with all my favourite treats. 

* FOMO = Fear of Missing Out