winter runaway

I found these stream-of-consciousness notes from many weeks ago and it feels just right as it is. The winter is over! This unrelenting winter. I couldn't do much, like all of us in the Maritimes, other than either buy a plane ticket or batten down and wait for it to stop.

As I write this, three days from May, it's snowing again. But it won't stick. Like bigotry and heartbeats it knows it's doomed, falling on soft mud and new worms.


The roads grunt and heave and the highway is lined like a tunnel of snowy white concrete that's taller than the car, and everyone's beaten up and slamming into potholes and bottoming out, and this winter: everyone's bottoming out.

I shovelled that roof three times, worried about collapse

The boys climbed up and needed no boost

I ran away to Cuba. There was a band.

Came home, watched the kids in the backseat, their eyes darting around. I hadn't seen them in too long. I almost ate them up. They demolish novels the same way they demolish pancakes. What do they think? What do they see? Will I ever stop wondering?

Ben drinks pina coladas now. He says Without Rum Please.

I will save money. I will run away again, except next time, with them.

It was the only way through.