TEMPORAL SPATIALITY by Erin Anderson

My childhood home moved between cities and small towns, stretching from Etobicoke to as far away as Lewiston, New York. After that we returned to Canada, where I lived on Foxwood Drive—my longest ever at a single address.

It was a red-brick bungalow, with builder’s off-white front and garage doors. When we first came to this home the yards were only mud, and my first winter there, I tobogganed down what seemed like a mountain to my eight-year-old self. A mountain of rusty mud and clay, dusted with snow like we don’t seem to get in Ontario anymore. I remember the mounds we had shoveled towering above my mother’s car on both sides. I would stay outside for hours and I don’t remember ever feeling the cold. I tried to get my mom to play outside with me, but she was always busy.

She would make me hot chocolate though, from a tin of powder that I would sometimes climb up on the kitchen counter to reach; licking my finger, dipping it in, then licking off the sticky sweetness. I didn’t dare tell my mother about this habit, and she never mentioned the clumps of powder she would spoon into the trash bin. There was a lot unsaid between us—even then—despite my penchant for chatter.

Share
This entry was posted in regular, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *