Sory

There is a new graffiti message showing up on streets, walls and sidewalks in my neighbourhood. I first noticed it on the way to the park. Sory was written in white spray paint across the sidewalk. Yesterday, as I stood at the bus stop, I noticed it written on the street and on the sidewalk, again the white paint. The bus rolled to a stop and passengers disembarked, others clambered on. Sory was hidden by feet and the bus's hulking noise.

Who wrote this? Were they so confident in their spelling they didn't bother to ask, to check? To apologize and to misspell the apology, there is irony in there somewhere or just banality. Or maybe it was written by someone for whom English is foreign and dense. Why two Rs when one will do? I like to think of a lovelorn youth from Bangladesh or Pakistan, getting used to the chilly air and baggy jeans that are the uniform of young men here, falling fast and hard for the girl with the cherry lip gloss, the tight jeans, the hair that smells like paradise. Love is so intense when you're fifteen. What did he do that he needs to write sory all over the neighbourhood? Kiss her best friend? Suddenly, there are so many girls, and it is so easy. How is it possible not to give into temptation? But then when the lust settles, he thinks only of cherry lips and wants to apologize. She won't answer his texts, she blocks his number. He wouldn't dream of going to her house, where tradition reigns and he would be turfed out without so much as a howdeedo?

So he writes on the street, where she will see and understand. But she was born here, raised in the ethnic ghetto, speaks French and English fluently, can pass, can pass, can pass. She is embarrassed that he has misspelled it. Her friends giggle and say sharp things, turning jealousy into astute observation. She pretends it was a joke, she never really liked him. Swish of heavenly hair and she is gone.

Only the sory remains.

'S-O-R-Y,' spells my son from his perch in the stroller. He looks up and smiles. He is so proud of himself.