This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

My heart is an M&M
One of many in a little glass bowl
Placed on a coffee table.
Pick me!

I’ve been nibbled at, chewed up, sucked on
I’ve been peanut and plain
I’ve been red, yellow and green.
I’ll melt in your mouth.

I am a blue dark chocolate M&M
You want to bite into me, devour me, taste me
But I’m the last one in the bowl.
Saved? Overlooked? Unwanted?

Exercising patience you pick me up
Place me in the palm of your hand
Turn me over, studying my m.
Your fingers turn blue.

I soften at your touch
Your heat and the pressure
My shell begins to crack.
Will you still want me if I’m damaged?

Pop me in your mouth
Savour me, feel me, know me
I want to experience you from the inside.
I am not afraid.

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Amanova

THEM: Amanova. What kind of name is that?
ME: What do you mean? [I know exactly what they mean]
THEM: Where is it from? What nationality?
ME: It’s not from anywhere, I made it up.
THEM: You what?!
ME: I made it up.
THEM: So, it’s not your real name?
ME: No, it’s my real name. It’s my legal name, I just made it up.
THEM: Huh?
ME: It’s a long story.

And it is, but I enjoy telling it. Just not in the checkout line at the grocery store.

In 2002 I was engaged to be married. It was kind of strange, considering that I wasn’t one of those girls who cared about getting married, but I loved my boyfriend, and could see myself spending the rest of my life with him, so when he surprised me with a proposal, I got caught up in the idea and said yes.

We had a year to figure out all of the details, and one that was extremely important to me was the name. I was willing to call myself his wife, but I did not want to take his name. I had a few good reasons:

1. I’m a feminist
2. I think it’s important to question and challenge traditions
3. His name is very ethnically-specific and hard to spell

Let me try to explain that last one, because it really just makes me sound shallow. I spent the first 27 years of my life as Marsha Jones. One of the most common surnames in the English-speaking world. I had no cultural connection to my last name, in fact, I always thought it was embarrassingly boring. I’m a woman and an only child, so my parents had never concerned themselves with the idea that there would be no one to carry on the family name, so there was no worry there. His was a different story. The Onuczko family is Ukrainian and proud of their background. I think that’s awesome. So it was a lot harder for him to just walk away from his surname. Although I always felt that I was a welcome addition to their family, and I appreciate, respect and enjoy their cultural heritage, I never felt that it was mine, and to take their name as my own didn’t feel right to me. Plus, I’m a bit shallow and didn’t want to have to spend the rest of my life spelling out my last name. Fortunately, my future husband agreed with my reasonings and together we explained them to his family. They were incredibly understanding, and I’m sure it didn’t hurt that they had a younger son who probably wouldn’t marry someone as challenging as I am.

My dilemma was that I didn’t want to keep my name, I didn’t want to take his name, and don’t even get me started on the idea of hyphenated last names. How is this a good idea? Which name do you give your kids? Both? OK fine, so now they have a ridiculously long last name. What are they supposed to do when they fall in love and want to marry another poor kid with a hyphenated surname? 4 names?! So, that wasn’t an option.

And here’s the thing, I may not have been dreaming of getting married since I was a little girl, but I am a romantic. And I really liked the idea of us having the same last name. After all, we were starting a whole new limb on the family tree. So we decided that we would both change our names. The perfect solution. But now the task was to find the perfect name.

We started out trying to combine our two names into something new and awesome. We failed. Miserably.

Jonesko. Onones. Nescko. Ozone? Cojones? Um, no. We even tried adding our mothers’ maiden names to the mix, but we still didn’t find anything we liked.

OK, how about we just find a really great name and go with that? This approach was inspired by a couple whose wedding a good friend of mine had attended. They changed their names to Skywalker. I’ll let that sink in for a minute…

– – –

We searched everywhere for the perfect name. We would each compile a list of possibilities and then get together to discuss them. I focused on literature and everyday words. His fondness for fantasy novels and video games produced a few interesting possibilities, but nothing was quite right. We wanted something that would be meaningful for both of us, sounded beautiful and combined well with our first names. It wouldn’t hurt if it fell near the beginning of the alphabet. We began to talk about not just claiming an existing name, but creating our own word, our own unique name. He had done this for characters in the RPGs he played. I was taking a Latin class at University, and was impressed by how many words come from Latin roots. I wanted to try to create something that would have a deeper meaning.

Amare verb: to love
+
Novare verb: to create or make new
= Amanova

We scoured phonebooks and googled it. We didn’t find much. A professor in San Diego, someone in Kyrgyzstan. We wanted something unique, but were willing to accept that there aren’t too many completely original names. We decided that the few we found were acceptable. We were never concerned that someday someone from the Amanova family would track us down and try to claim us as their own.

Of course, I’m no longer married, but I’m still Amanova. He changed his name back after the divorce, but I wanted to keep it. It’s who I am now.

Anyway, that’s the story of my name. I think it makes for an interesting tale. Most people seem to enjoy it, but I don’t think I’ve inspired anyone else to do the same. There have been a few minor bumps along the road, but nothing that would make me regret my decision. I did have a relationship with one guy who never liked the idea of me keeping the name I created with my ex. And I met one person, a Czech woman, who upon hearing my story was convinced that what I’d done is akin to blasphemy – stealing a name! Fortunately, my irreverence doesn’t keep me up at night.

Every once in a while I’ll search google just to see what comes up: a French musician, lots of Polish pages. I haven’t tried it for awhile, but today ‘s search found something new that’s a bit strange and made me laugh out loud:

I wonder how much it would cost me to buy that domain?

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

I am a strong, intelligent woman. And yet, I have this tendency to be a bit boy crazy.

I recently felt the need to cool things off with a guy I was pretty into. We had known each other for a while, but had only been on a couple of dates. What I wanted to tell him was,

So… I don’t think I can see you anymore since I’ve fallen head over heels for this other guy I just met who lives with his girlfriend in a different city, and who I’m pretty sure feels the same way about me, but we aren’t going to see each other until July so who knows what’s going to happen, but I wouldn’t feel right not telling you about it, and even though I think you’re really sweet and yes I’m attracted to you, you just don’t really compare to this other guy who I can’t have. Can we be friends?

I mean, that’s the truth. But that’s not what I said. What I actually said was more along the lines of,

I really like you, and yes, I’m attracted to you, but the problem is that I really think I need to focus on me right now. And if we keep going along this trajectory I know what’s going to happen: I’m going to put all of my energy into you. Into learning about you and thinking about you and wanting to spend time with you. Because that’s what I do when I’m into someone. I know it sounds selfish, but I really just need to put that energy back into me. I’ve told you about my recent slap-in-the-face discovery that I need to refocus my energies and reevaluate my life and I don’t know if I can do that while starting something with you. And you know that I recently ended a medium-serious relationship and the last thing I need to do right now is jump headfirst into another one. Can we be friends?

A pretty different story, and yet, still true. I just saved myself the discomfort of having to explain the out-of-town impossible guy that I fell for in 3 short nights to a guy who I had just started dating.

And he was really cool and understanding about it. And I’d like to think that we are friends, even though I still haven’t told him about the other guy. The one I can’t stop thinking about. The one I’ve been putting all of my energy into. The one I want to spend all of my time with. Woah.

So. Time for a reality check. I am OK with the fact that I’ve totally fallen for someone situationally inappropriate, and with the fact that it’s pretty much an impossible situation right now. I’m thriving on all of the energy and anticipation and the excitement of the many optimistic imaginary outcomes that I have been able to dream up. But, I need to remember to breathe. I need to remember to be me. I’m much happier and far more interesting when I’ve got my own things going on.

There’s a fine line between enthusiasm & passion and addiction & obsession. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to stop feeling this way. I don’t want to let go of any of my wanting, desiring, intense feelings; I just don’t want to go over the edge into scary, needy, craziness.

I’m just going to keep it awesome. And keep having fun. And keep singing this song:

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

I have had this book on my bookshelf for over 15 years. I’ve started reading it a few times, but never gotten very far. And yet I can’t bring myself to toss it, recycle it, sell it or give it away, even though that’s what’s become of hundreds of books that I’ve owned in this time period.

I’m a big believer in helping yourself, but I cringe at the term “self-help.” But I bought this book for a reason, and I’ve hung on to it all these years for a reason. So why haven’t I ever gotten through it? It’s not that long. And why can’t I let it go?

I think deep down I believe that I need it. Or something like it.

Is it possible that this silly yellow book could be the key, or even just one of many, that might help me unlock the chains that have been holding me back all of my life? The idea of that is just too scary. I’m afraid of this yellow book. I’m afraid that either it will not help and I will continue to fumble around in the darkness, trying to figure out what I really want, or that it will work and then what? What lies beyond me figuring out what I really want?

I pulled this book off of the bottom of the bookshelf tonight. I opened it and started reading. And I recognized myself in the first few pages. Hope bloomed. And I immediately stopped reading and got on my computer and started typing.

What does that mean? And what happens next?

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

Creative Non-Fiction Class

The final story I’m sharing here is slightly out of order in terms of the class timeline, but it is also my favourite piece from the class. I found the assignment daunting: tell a non-fiction story within the frame of a specific form not typically used for this kind of writing. She called it a Hermit Crab Essay. A story crawls out of its original shell and finds a new home elsewhere. The form should be unusual for non-fiction, but should fit the subject matter appropriately (I’ve worded that poorly, but I can’t find the class syllabus with the actual assignment). (March 2011)

From the author statement I submitted with my piece:

I had a really great time working on this assignment. I was terrified at first, not sure what form to use or even what I wanted to write about (no surprise there, that’s how most of my assignments begin). I considered a number of different topics, to the point that I completely stressed myself out. I planned to start writing on Saturday, and finding myself unable to come up with anything I decided to have a nap, desperately hoping something would occur to me in my sleep.

Out of nowhere a story from my past popped into my head, something I hadn’t thought about in years. As I lay in bed (not sleeping) the details began to come back to me and I was struck by the appropriateness (and assignment-worthy inappropriateness) of telling my childhood story using a fairy tale narrative.

I thought about how traditional fairy tales are often dark and a bit scary, and also how they have been watered down and Disney-fied for children. I thought about how witches and monsters are pretend, and that some of the people we encounter in real life can be much scarier. I thought about how much I was loved, and the fact that I had a generally happy and safe childhood. I thought about that child-like resiliency that adults often forget children have. I thought about taboos, sex and sexuality, the house I grew up in, and my Flitter-Bit Strawberry Shortcake toy.

It didn’t take long for me to get motivated. I sat down at my computer and banged out the fastest and easiest first draft that I’ve managed to write for this class so far. I read it over. I worried that it would freak out my classmates during peer editing. I decided that it probably wouldn’t, and if it made them uncomfortable, too bad. I liked it. I was pleased.

---

Once upon a time, in a kingdom not too far away, lived a King and Queen and their only child.  The Princess was a happy girl, but sometimes she got lonely without any siblings to play with.  She spent a lot of time reading books and making up exciting adventures for her toys.  When the Princess was allowed to play with the other children in the court, they seemed to enjoy the games she invented, and even though she was a bit bossy and always insisted on making up her own rules, the Princess was well liked.

There was a large bedroom in the basement of the castle, and the Princess had recently been permitted to move from her tiny room upstairs down to the new bedroom.  Leaving behind the bright colours and nursery-rhyme wallpaper made her feel grown up.  The new bedroom had high windows that looked out into the courtyard and had a ledge just wide enough to climb on.  The Princess now had a huge dresser and a closet large enough to hold all of her toys.  But the best thing about the new bedroom was the enormous waterbed.  It had a headboard with shelves for the Princess’s prized books and a lovely oval mirror in the centre.

The Princess and her friends loved to climb up onto the dresser and leap onto the waterbed.  They had to squelch their screams of joy because they knew that if the King and Queen discovered them jumping on the bed they would be in a lot of trouble.  Sometimes the Princess would have the other children lie down on the bed and she would climb even higher, to the ledge of the windows, and jump from there, making everyone giggle with the massive waves created by her landing.

One winter day the King and Queen received an invitation to a Ball where children, even good little Princesses, were not allowed.  On occasions such as these the King and Queen usually selected a young Noble to stay at the castle with the Princess for the evening.  But this was a very popular Ball, and all of the kingdom’s young Lords and Ladies had been spoken for.  Rather than exploit their royal favor, the King and Queen invited the son of a trusted royal family from a neighboring kingdom to watch over the Princess that night.

The Prince was a handsome young man of sixteen.  The Princess had never met him before and was quite shy when he arrived.  The King and Queen left him with instructions, cautioned the Princess not to pester the young Prince too much, kissed her goodnight and left in their carriage for the Ball.

The Prince smiled at the little Princess and asked her questions about her studies and her interests.  She offered to give him a tour of the castle, and led him by the hand through all of the upstairs rooms, pointing out things that might be of interest.  Then she took him down the tower stairs to show him the entertainment room.  She finished the grand tour in her bedroom.  The Prince was impressed by the large waterbed and proceeded to sit and then lie down on it, rocking a bit to make waves.  Hoping to keep his attention, the Princess started to show him her favourite toys, but he didn’t seem interested.  Instead he suggested that she play with her toys while he worked on his homework in the entertainment room.

The Princess was crestfallen.  She liked the Prince and wanted him to play with her.  She was hoping he would be like her favorite Lady-In-Waiting who always brought the latest albums to play on the record player, turning them up loud while they danced around the entertainment room together.  The Lady-in-Waiting never ignored the Princess to do homework, although she sometimes spent a long time on the telephone with her boyfriend, a Knight.  But the she would always confide in the Princess afterwards, telling stories about the Knight: how he was a total jerk or how she found him incredibly sexy.

So when the Prince went upstairs to get his schoolbooks, the Princess slammed her bedroom door, threw herself onto her waterbed and began to pout.  She hoped that the Prince would feel badly and come to rescue her.  It didn’t take long for her to get bored, but she was a very stubborn little Princess and continued pouting for at least twenty minutes.

Eventually the little Princess could stand it no more.  She climbed down off her bed, inched open the door and tiptoed down the carpeted hallway to the entertainment room to spy on the Prince.  She thought he looked very handsome sitting on the couch bent over his books and papers on the coffee table.  She wondered if he was sexy.

Spying got boring too, so the Princess made just enough noise so that the Prince would look over at her.  She smiled a sneaky smile at him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied innocently.

The Princess darted towards the coffee table, snatched up the Prince’s pencil, and giggling, ran away.  She headed toward the tower stairs and the Prince jumped up to chase her.  She screamed as he laughed and roared like a monster.  He caught up with her before she reached the top. He grabbed her, picked her up and started to carry her back downstairs.

The Princess kicked and squealed, “Let me go! Let me go!” but the Prince kept roaring.  He carried her into her bedroom and threw her down on the bed.  He growled, “Give me back my magical pencil you little witch!”

The Princess was delighted.  She held the pencil high, shook her head back and forth and screamed. “Never!”

The Prince grinned and replied, “If you won’t return my magical pencil I will have no choice but to… TICKLE YOU!”

He jumped onto the bed, trapping the Princess between his legs and started to tickle her mercilessly.  “I am the tickle monster!” he cried.  The little Princess was very ticklish and she screeched and squealed and squirmed beneath him, but kept a firm grasp on the pencil.

“Stop! Stop!” The Princess finally cried, out of breath from giggling and screaming. The Prince stopped and smiled wickedly at her.

“Will you give me back my pencil?” he asked.

“Yes! Yes!” she cried. “Take it!”

The Prince snatched the pencil from the Princess’s fist and rolled over beside her on the bed.  They had made waves in the waterbed.  “That was fun,” panted the Princess, still out of breath.  She felt funny.  Her body was sore from being tickled, but she also felt a warm tingling feeling inside.  She liked it.  When the the waves started to fade, the Princess got bold. She climbed on top of the Prince and started to tickle him.  He grinned at first and playfully swatted her hands away, but after a moment he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.  Rather than squealing or screaming like the Princess, the Prince let out a low moan.  Suddenly, he threw the Princess off of him and jumped off the bed.  “That’s enough,” he choked.

Once he left the room the Princess felt terrible.  She didn’t want the Prince to be mad at her.  She went upstairs to the kitchen and made two peanut butter and jam sandwiches.  The Queen’s homemade strawberry jam was the best in the land.  The Princess poured two glasses of milk and carefully carried everything down the tower stairs to the entertainment room.  The Prince barely glanced at her when she entered.

“I’m sorry for tickling you,” the Princess said, “I made us some sandwiches.  Are you hungry?”

They ate in silence and, when it was almost bedtime, the Prince told her to go and get ready for bed.  The Princess asked him if he would tuck her in.  He nodded.

The Princess washed her face, brushed her teeth and changed out of her clothes into her nightie.  She crawled into the center of her enormous waterbed, got under the covers and hollered, “I’m ready! You can come tuck me in now!”

The Prince stood in the doorway.  The Princess smiled shyly at him.  “Will you lie down with me until I fall asleep?” she asked.

The Prince seemed uncertain, but he turned off the lights and lay down on the bed.

“You can get under the covers if you want,” she said.

He lifted up the blankets and slid in beside the Princess.  He was lying on his back.  The waterbed was warm.  The Princess turned towards him and snuggled up to his side.

“Goodnight,” she said.

“Sweet dreams, Princess.”

– – –

The Princess woke up suddenly with a pain between her legs.  The Prince was stroking her hair.

“Shhh, it’s OK,” he whispered.

As her grogginess began to wear off she realized why she was hurting.  The Prince had pushed up her nightgown and his hand was under her panties.  Something was inside her.  There.  The Princess was scared.  She tried to move away from him, but he held her tight.  She started to sob.  “No, shhh, it’s OK,” he said and kissed her on the cheek.

“I want my mommy,” the Princess sobbed, “Where’s my mommy?  I want my mommy to come home.”

The Prince removed his hand from under the blankets, but the Princess kept crying.  The Prince continued to whisper, “I’m sorry, shhh.  It’s OK, shhh.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.  Don’t worry.  Shhh, go back to sleep.”  He held her, stroking her hair, kissing her cheek and whispering to her.  The Princess closed her eyes.

 – – –

In the morning, the Princess woke up with the sun.  She squinted and looked around her room.  The Prince was gone.  In the bright morning light the night felt like a dream.  When the King and Queen asked if she liked the Prince she simply said, “He’s OK, but I like the Lady-in-Waiting better.”

The End

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

Creative Non-Fiction Class

For our final assignment we were given the opportunity to re-write something from earlier in the term. It was an opportunity to raise the grade on a particular piece and to tackle a subject from a different perspective. It was supposed to be a big change, not just another round of edits. My goal was to turn the story into a series of vignettes. I think that the pedagogical implications of this assignment are fantastic, and although I believe my re-write is an improvement, it’s still not top notch. Regardless, here it is: Crossing Canada Redux (April 2011)

---

Traveling eastbound on the Yellowhead the sun begins to set behind us, surrounding Caddy with beautiful light. A rainbow appears on the highway before us as though we’re heading directly for the pot of gold. I believe we are.

It’s dark and well after 10:00pm when the four of us pull into Lorraine and Esther’s little farm outside of Saskatoon. It’s my first visit here and it took us a while to find the place. Everyone is hugged, introduced and offered wine. I am impressed, but not surprised, by how well my friends and my Aunts get along, and the wine and conversation flow easily and much later than we expect. Dan, still hung-over from his farewell party the night before, is the first to head to bed. It’s not easy to find room for four guests in a farmhouse, and he and I end up sharing a twin bed while Wade gets a couch and Andrea a mattress on the floor.

We all move a bit slower than planned the following morning, and enjoy a hearty breakfast of oatmeal and fruit before venturing outside to get our first glimpse of the little farm. The Cadillac’s headlights had not revealed the quaint garden filled with wildflowers and my Aunt’s art, the restored greenhouse, or the shady arbor that had been built for Esther’s daughter’s wedding the previous summer. And there’s a horse!

Just enough time for a few group photos, and then we need to pack up the car and hit the road. I leave a thank you card for Aunt Lorraine and Esther on the bed. It’s the last handwritten note my Aunt will receive from me. When she discovers it, I hope she smiles and remembers the letters we used to exchange when I was a kid.

– – –

The thought of spending this perfect summer day cooped-up in the car is unbearable.  It doesn’t take much for Wade’s Aunt Linda to convince us to go out to Lake Winnipeg for a swim. It’s so hot that we stop for Freezies on the way. I can’t keep the smile from my face as I chew and slurp the cherry-flavored ice. I’m six years old again.

When we get to the beach I kick off my flip-flops and run to the water, arms stretched out to embrace the lake. I’m always the first one in. My screams at the cold shock don’t entice anyone to join me right away, so I swim around to warm up while I wait for everyone else to get hot enough to venture in.

– – –

Northern Ontario, with its long stretches of rocks and trees and nothing else, has gotten to us. Dan is stubborn, Wade gets annoyed, I become bitchy and Andrea tries to smooth things over. It’s group therapy in a Cadillac. We drive until we can’t stand it any longer, and Andrea suggests we get out of the car and take a walk near Lake Superior. It’s exactly what we need. We skip stones, take silly photos and remember how to make each other laugh.

– – –

We’re sticking it to the man in Ontario. Trying to save money, we hit a grocery store and plan to dine al fresco at one of the parks along the highway. The trouble is, there is a fee at every park we’ve passed – a charge to drive in, park, eat at a picnic table, and leave. We are spoiled, having grown up out West. Not to be dissuaded, we find a reasonably large shoulder, pull over, and hike down an unmarked path. It leads to a clearing by the lake. Score! It’s pretty, it’s private, it’s perfect.

Squabbling is at a minimum when our mouths are full. We’ve all been feeling the inevitable tension that occurs when four people are forced to be together for extended periods of time. We drive all day, hang out in the evening and share a hotel room at night. Friendships aside, we are starting to annoy the shit out of each other.

After lunch, Wade and Andrea announce that they’re heading back to Caddy for a nap before we hit the road again. Dan and I can barely contain our gratitude. We haven’t been alone for a few days and the strain must be obvious. Wade gives me a knowing look as he and Andrea pack up a few things to carry back. “We’ll leave the blanket for you guys.”

Once they’re out of earshot we can’t keep our hands off each other. My love for outdoor fucking is no secret, and foreplay is unnecessary. Clothes are off and Dan is inside me in record time. There’s no reason to suppress my moans out here. I share my ecstasy with all of nature. As my first climax fades I relax and enjoy the sensations: the sound of the lake lapping the shore, a gentle breeze caressing my naked skin. I feel the tension between us melting away. Squabbling is at a minimum when our mouths are full.

– – –

Caddy started giving us serious attitude in Ottawa. Nearly every attempt to start the car triggered the anti-theft warning message, which meant we had to wait three minutes before starting her up again. It’s beyond annoying, and we nearly got a parking ticket in Ottawa because we can’t move the car, but it hasn’t kept us from getting where we need to go. I call my dad to ask about the problem. He says we might as well wait until we arrive in Nova Scotia to get it looked at.

Bad advice, Dad. We decide to stop about 75 kilometers from Montreal, thinking gas might be cheaper in rural Quebec. It’s mid-afternoon and we have plenty of time to get to the city and find a hotel. Except this time Caddy decides that we no longer deserve a warning. She flat out refuses to start. Maybe she’s tired of driving. Maybe she’s sick of our bickering. Whatever it is, there’s no way she’s taking us any further. It starts to rain.

We attempt to stay dry and decide what to do next. We’ve tried everything we can think of. We finally nominate Andrea, the closest thing we’ve got to a francophone, to ask the gas station attendant to call us a tow truck and a taxi.

It’s nearly midnight when the tow truck drops Caddy off at the dealership. Our cabbie agreed to a flat rate into the city, but he goes well beyond the call of duty, entertaining us with amusing stories to take our minds off our troubles, and navigating to a number of hotels to inquire about vacancies. He manages to help us turn a terrible situation into an adventure.

The few days we spend in Montreal while Caddy gets fixed are among my favorite of the trip.

– – –

It’s been eleven years since I last visited Nova Scotia. My parents used to take me every few years, but they stopped paying for my vacations a long time ago, and I haven’t had a chance to return. Now that mom and dad have retired and built their summer home at Cameron Beach, I have an excuse. Not to mention the fact that Caddy belongs to them and they want her back.

I have no problem remembering the muddy red sand squishing between my toes. Walking forever on the sandbars when the tide is out, and jumping into the water from the big rocks when it’s in. I keep these memories close at hand as we venture eastward. I’m enjoying the journey, but I can’t wait to get there.

I take the wheel in New Brunswick, and as we cross the border into Nova Scotia I begin to recognize landmarks from my childhood and I’m invigorated by the distinctive smell of the maritime air. My heart starts to pound in Amherst when I realize we’re less than an hour away. I babble on about things suddenly familiar that I had forgotten: the brick building where we need to turn left, that lone tree in the field, Chandler’s corner store. My excitement is contagious and my friends are as giddy as I am in anticipation of our arrival. As we turn on to Toney Bay Road I can barely contain myself. My parents’ house is new, but I have no trouble recognizing it as we approach in the dark.

I see the welcoming glow in the windows and I know I’m home.