My last essay, from February, seems like a postcard from a bygone age. Me, at home; a life in the arts; what different meanings those have now.
Two days after posting the essay, my father died; by the following week I was in Toronto with my family, putting him to rest on a windswept hill, as snow fell around us…
The sky is calling. It's time to go.
There's no clearer sign that a trip is ending than the email from your airline saying 'check in online for your flight tomorrow!'
The packing has been going on all day; and at the same time, I'm drawn back to the details of where we are, the particulars of this place, which may or may not be here when I'm next in this country. So my focus is split between putting things in bags, and appreciating my surroundings one last time…
I'm home.
Well, it's one of my homes - it feels like I have three, really: in Sydney, Toronto, and Pointe au Baril. But this is where I spent the most time, growing up.
This house has been here longer than I have; my parents bought it in 1962, and have somehow stayed here all that time - while I can't even remember all my addresses in the last 20 years, theirs has remained fixed…
