Sometimes, I wear my black overalls and people ask me if I have dressed up as Mario, mushroom-eater, travelling plumber and princess-savior; I tell them to go watch Olivia Gatwood and Megan Falley’s poem When Princess Peach Speaks.
Other times people tell me Damn girl, you can pull those off, and I find that I am unjustifiably pleased with myself.
I look at that picture and wonder that the moment is gone already; I lived here, I keep telling myself over and over again. I lived here, and I have left now, and I will probably never return. It is something that stays with me: the idea that there are so many places I have seen that throughout my existence I will never see again.
Leaving for me is so often anticlimactic. It is all expedited hugs and sweating from carrying around too many suitcases. I had Tim Horton’s potato wedges and cream cheese jalapeño bagel for lunch for the last time.
How is it going, my dad asked when I called him, sat on the spot on the bench where there is the most light. You know, I said. Finishing up packing and then heading off, to which he replied Fuck, already? I didn’t think it would come so soon. Indeed. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear is what they say.
It figures that the two first and most glorious days of Spring would finally show up on our last days on the mountain. Cheeky, that.