SAPLING Sunday mornings, Mom attends mass at St. Ambrose Church while Dad takes me to High Park where I play in the garden of God’s splendour. The crisp air is salty with a cooling breeze from the lake. The earth beneath our feet emanates summer’s stored heat. I feed the geese and mallards at Grenadier Pond mouldy Italian bread, line…
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“Since the house is on fire, let us warm ourselves.” (Italian proverb) Monday, 9 a.m. Not writing. Dim, dreary morning, the forecast calls for rain. The writer stands at the window. She prefers looking outside to staring at the blank page. A squirrel is stuck on the roof of the neighbouring shed again. It chirps in distress; the sound…
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