There is something East Coast about dinner at the Derkson/Gamble house. Champagne on the deck, then inside to candles, bread, cheese, summer sausage, pumpkin soup, roast pork, potatoes. Cozy catchup, my hairless godson stares wide wide wide-eyed. When the world is new, everything is delightful, so laugh little boy, laugh. The pupils of his eyes look like the eyes of my dancing Toronto friends on E.
We plot to disturb Alberta. We gossip and puzzle, external internal, who does what and why. Why we choose what we choose, and where it lands us. Our own guilts, culpabilities, desires and foibles. This is a transitional time of life, and a transitional time of year.
In this house I am all full tummy and warm lights. We drink, we laugh. I fall asleep on the couch. Jay covers me with many blankets. But afterwards, when the tired family has gone to bed, my contacts get dry. I slip out the back door into the quiet city. The witches are asleep, and the business men haven’t yet got out of bed. The road is mine, the moon is mine. The city is dark and empty. I accept the cool quiet. It isn’t the gift I wanted, in spite of its perfect beauty. I get home. I crawl into my own bed and sleep.