This time last year, I was wrapping up coursework for my MA in English in Montreal. That spring was a season of wading through sticky-wet shade, of biking, of trying to tire the restlessness that comes from unstructured thesis-writing time. It was a time of new asparagus shoots, of procrastination, and of sour saison beers beneath Vices & Versa's spangled tree. I baked a lot of chocolate cakes for visitors and birthdays and Matt. I felt lonely and fulfilled. I'd been married for two years, and for a while, we had a dog.
I spent most spring mornings writing about silence, edges, and Canadian poetry. Most afternoons, I walked a shedding dog from Mile End to Parc Outremont, where the grass felt perpetually dew-damp, even at 3pm. Here, I'd wipe excess clouds of fur from his torso with my leashless hand. It settled on the ground like a small animal and mirrored the sky above. It was a time of Puny Times parties and Kim's birthday and Hilary's coven-bachelorette and gardening, and this roll preserves a slice of that.
