The Cold Drip

We might be moving soon.

The cold drip from the showerhead that lands on my head as I lean over the tub to turn on the faucet and run my bath.

The repetitive sound of a bouncing basketball echoing off of asphalt from the schoolyard across the street, directly through the screens of my open windows. Late nights, summer sunsets.

The too-loud mumble rap from next door. The teenaged kid dumping his bong water out of his second storey bedroom window within eyeline of my kitchen window. Dumping his garbage can out the same window. The eternal second-hand weed smoke.

The reverberations of bass tones from country music performed at the small bandshell down the hill. The cheers of a few dozen lawn-sitters with beers in hand and Canadian flags on their hats.

The quivering of our walls when construction takes place on our street, or a block away on Main Street. Some form of construction has been taking place continuously for three years now. Just like in the big cities.

Our son took some of his earliest steps here. He loved the big, open living room space when we looked at the place before signing the lease.

We planted seeds together for the first time here.

The backyard, 2019

We might be moving soon.

We watched them grow. We ate our very own vegetables.

We had our own yard. We had to ask the landlords to put up a fence because the neighbour kid’s little sister, who was around eight years old, wandered into our yard and sprinkled broken glass into the grass on our second night here. I watched her from the shed, where I was tidying up unbeknownst to her, as she gingerly placed each shard of glass where she thought we or our baby might walk in bare feet.

But still…we have our own yard.

So many backyard fires. Starry, brazen, slightly drunken nights as new parents forging a new shared life.

We fostered a couple of cats - one of whom had a few too many toes - then adopted our son’s first pet.

We found our groove and our footing as a family of three.

The living room ceiling caved in on me one evening while I was doing yoga. Crumbling, decades-old cellulose and fresh mouse shit particles filling the air around me, and all of us.

Old house.

New tricks.

We might be moving soon.

We learned how to be healthier here - ironic considering some of the details above.

We spent countless evenings at the beaches, watching our child splash in the waves after the tourists all headed back to their cabins for the night. Shivering contentedly in a towel as we carry him to our car, he grins at his surroundings.

So much sand. Forest. Earth.

Bugs.

Digging holes in the backyard, for logical garden-related reasons and for no reason at all.

Dangling legs from downtown docks; feet in water that is either exhilarating in its chill or utterly replenishing in the extreme heat.

This house isn't haunted, but I certainly am. It'll rise to the top of my warm, milky memories of life as a young mom. It'll hang from my rearview mirror as I speed forward along the Eastbound highway, wiping away tears of joyful grief, and trying not to focus on the beautiful horizon fading behind me.

I can do this anywhere, 2020