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Why the rush?

We were 10, 14 and 15 years old, my sister, brother and I. Young, foolish. Hurting. I don't remember much when we were this age. Trauma has a way of doing that to people, I think; making them forget not only the bad, but unfortunately the good too. The unthinkable had happened to us at this seemingly carefree age. It felt like we were in a dream. A horrible, awful dream. What happened to us, you might ask? Well, perhaps it wasn't necessarily something that had happened to us, rather, news we received which would then result in a kind of happening: Mom and Dad were separating. For good. I don't recall if we even had a chance to say goodbye. Did he just leave? I was in the abyss that is grief and shock. The lonely, other-world, the already indescribable arena of an adolescent, just on the brink of understanding real emotion. And then this happens? What do I feel? Can I feel? It was during these early days (months?) that a family-friend picked my sister, brother and I up from

Fly Away Home

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September 17th, 2016 This morning I awoke to one of my greatest insecurities: I was going home. You know, home.  Back to our nineteen-fifties house in the land of crystal blue lakes, mountain sightings by every turn, thicket in your backyard, and an accompanied coolness in every season; Beautiful British Columbia.  I was going back to the house where my Momma taught me how to put my jam-making skills into money-making opportunities, where my Dad taught me how to set a volleyball. Where I've inhabited three out of three available bedrooms (designated for the children) because it seems that each season of my life calls for a different space.  Back to the only home I have ever known. One would never suspect five people as large as us could survive in our small house; and yet, survive we do. It's also--somewhat thanks to its smallness-- the house where a mechanical dishwasher is prayed for. And even though we've lived there for over seven years, Mom still thinks that the living