Canada, 1960
There were days and nights when the fist of loneliness that clenched in my chest would open up and the pain would cramp through my body. Did it seem normal, our life? Well, no, but then it never had. There was some comfort in knowing that I had once lived such a full life. The choices I made became the life I’d led – more than that, I’d become the choices I made. Only I knew the curves and relief of my own topography.
I had once sent letters to my own family in hopes that I could trade the stories of my life abroad for a place in theirs. I asked them to write to me of their spouses, their children. I still have photos of my nieces and nephews in christening gowns, later perched on top of horses or standing stiffly in front of gates in their Sunday best. We kept writing, my
