It was almost the end of 2010 in Edmonton (Canada) and
as the colour of the leaves on trees changed from a cheerful green to a rich
copper and then a deep bronze, I handed in my two weeks notice at my workplace
and then packed my bags and put away things I could not put in my suitcase in
large plastic bags and gave them away at the local second hand shop and what I
could not give away, I put in black garbage bags and threw away. All the while
being clawed incessantly by an intimidating feeling of hollowness, followed by
a sense of fear so deep and so unrelenting it knotted itself into a little lump
in my throat, making my eyes brim over unexpectedly; whether I was on the bus
to work, or while I was staring into the distance from my kitchen window as I
washed the dishes.
And as the first few flakes of early snow fell
carpeting the city in a sheet of white, I was ready to leave, to go home and
say good bye to a city that I had just begun to call home.
It wasn’t easy really, to just pack up and go, turn my
back on a city that had taken me into her arms, roughed me up a good deal and
made a woman out of me. A city that taught me what it was to walk for fifteen
minutes in the biting cold, while the falling snow stung my eyes; and my nose
red and frozen from the cold kept running. A city that taught me that it was
wiser to shop at Costco than at Sobey’s and that all non-biodegradable garbage
went in large blue bags, not the black ones. Or the fact that if I didn’t do
laundry on my day off, no one else would and the laundry bag in the corner
would begin to overflow. I also learned that drinking French Vanilla at Tim
Hortons would make my lips sticky and I chose to drink a large Double Double
instead. Edmonton also taught me that the
unkempt and unshaven homeless man outside the neighbourhood convenience store,
who always carried his cat with him in his bag and who always waved at me
cheerfully revealing crooked and yellow teeth, was harmless and had quite a
witty sense of humour. The city gave me friends who may not have spoken the
best English and whose accent I had trouble understanding, but we laughed at
each others jokes nonetheless!
And so I learned that I had to look to my right and not
left while I crossed the road, and that innocent looking dark patch on the
street in winter was black ice, slipping on which could be really nasty and that
snow shovelling in the winter could be back breaking business and more than
anything else Edmonton taught me that “home” was only an illusion and home would
be anywhere I choose to hang my hat!
Heya Maryann!
ReplyDeleteI saw you while going through eM's archives and decided to start stalking you when I saw your comment at eMs...Loved the pretty purple Kindle and been readig some of your reviews too...noticed one of them was requested by a publisher,How do you that??
And I still lurve Enid Blyton too!
Love.
Hey Talitha,thanks for reading/stalking my blog :) In fact I do quite a few book reviews for Westland Books, who are co-publishers of a book I've just published my first short story in.
ReplyDeleteOOh wow!
ReplyDeleteWhat's the name of the book??
Your 'debut as an author link' doesn't work dear.I tried.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteHey you can buy a copy of my book here http://www.flipkart.com/urban-shots-9381626429/p/itmd57uayhgdgqsq?pid=9789381626429&ref=a2257839-b9f3-4016-b3f7-b3d5e89d9339&srno=m_1_1&otracker=from-search
ReplyDeleteAlso thanks for telling me about the link, will look into it :)
Stupid me!
DeleteYou did mention Urban Shots in your posts but it was a cold distanced kind of review so I felt it was a regular book you reviewed...
And you really are Maryann Taylor...love your name.Stylish and elegant.Sorry for the dumb sounding comments...too lazy to think.
Love.
There are in fact four Urban Shots books. Urban Shots, Urban Shots Crossroads (the one that has my story), Urban Shots Bright Light and Urban Shots The Love Collection. I've reviewed Bright Lights and the Love Collection here :) Check them out, they've got some lovely stories.
ReplyDelete