Rummaging through an old Bally shoebox yesterday, in search of a family photo for my 5-year-old daughter’s “Family Tree” school project, I unwittingly fell upon a vivid picture of my maternal grandmother.
Left by my mother on our kitchen counter was the invitation for Rachel’s annual Halloween party, a tradition carried out for the past several years.
It had been a favourite topic of discussion at dinner parties throughout the years.
The last time I struck a match, I lit the sky on fire. Up, up, up galloped the pillows of smoke, stacked on top of each other like scorched marshmallows.
Sarah bit her lip, not out of pleasure but out of the need to steady herself so she did not dart for the door.
Marisol scrolls through the appointment list and marks the scheduled patients who have checked in.
The winds here are charged, tensed and pressing against the maple barks.
I’ll always remember when I was three and stepped up onto a new sidewalk that was too high for me, almost to my knees.
Shrieking wails, carried by the churning wind above, deafens me as the darkness steals my sight.
A breeze tousled the silver birches that loomed above the trail, provoking a flurry of golden autumn leaves.