the top margin, saskatchewan

I wrote 10:53 in the top margin of this page. And now, two weeks later, it all comes back. The Saturday before last, walking down a slushy road in Caronport, Saskatchewan. Robyn and Sydney on my left. The way it smelled of last night's campfire, like mornings at the lake. I don't have anything of much significance to say about any of this, but according to the top margin, I wanted to remember it. According to the top margin, I want to remember a lot of things. Writing in that space up there is my way of saying "remind me to tell you...". Remind me to tell you about speed-dating on the eleven-hour bus ride and eating waffle sundaes at a café at two in the morning. Remind me to tell you how about how good it felt to hear this song live again and how in awe I was when I left Saskatchewan. All those human-shaped holes in my heart, I didn't even know I had them. How long had they been there? I left in awe because they had been filled.

It was Saturday night and I'd only known you for two days. It was the night my friends and I and two thousand other kids cried and listened and held each other. And when there was only sniffling left, we unbraided heads from shoulders and hands from hands and there you stood with outstretched arms. "My new friend, Abbey," you smiled, "come here."

I came. A human-shaped hole was filled.

And you. We were one, maybe two hours from home, the last leg. It was dark and blizzarding and the last of us were all huddled around one seat, talking. Faces didn't exist, only voices, the odd piece of raw expression made visible by a passing headlight. We had questions and you seemed to have all the right words. Not answers, per se, but questions for those questions. It made sense.

There are more names in the margins, more stories in those names, more human-shaped holes yet to be filled. I hope that there will always be another one.

christmas in killarney

 

(a roll of film from the holidays)

I thought about tradition, the significance of each time-honoured practice. Why some lose their spark, or never fail to do so. How despite being hand-me-downs from generations past, welcomed year in, year out, they still preserve that certain spontaneity. I thought about this and how it all tied into my own family's traditions; the rituals and folklore we unearth every twelve months. I thought about this later, after it was all said and done. I was living it at the time. We all were. 

I'd be lying if I said I didn't wonder. I wonder where I'll be this time next year. I wonder how many more times we'll open our apple boxes. I wonder how many more games of fox and geese I'll play before I tire of it. I wonder if I'll ever tire of snow games entirely, if I'll ever lose my gift to play, really play, like a child. I wonder if any new traditions were born from our whims, if we'll go glow-bowling three days before Christmas and have supper at Wu's Chinese and Canadian Dishes three days after. I wonder and I am in wonder - of this season, this province, these people. They are good.

toe, heel

We walk home toe, heel now. Our backs facing the harsh and unforgiving prairie winds, just as we did last year and each one before. It's funny walking past our neighbours; facing each other, but only after we've passed. Like a film played in reverse. It's this or choking on air, though. Luckily, we've become skilled in the art of toe, heel.

We picked out our tree at the backyard tree lot, two weeks before last on the cusp of November. Half the battle is convincing Mom to opt for a real one. The other half is conquering the battle of tree vs. small door frame. It's all dressed up in the corner now, in knickknacks from and before my time. I like our ornaments and how each one brings to mind a certain feeling or a certain day or a certain person. Buying a proper set of ornaments is probably something I'll never do.

December hasn't been too generous with time to think or write or sit (I've been meaning to write for two weeks now). But she's been generous with time. Time for tests and work and preparation and overwhelming decisions. It'll all be worth it come Christmas break. I'll be thankful for it, even. It's a chop your own wood and it will warm you twice sort of month, and this week is the final swing of the axe. 

Warmth is on its way.