Not here. Not now. Not today, in this pretty place. I feel sand tickling underneath my feet, the sun in my long hair, a soft breeze on my walking legs. A sense of peace begins to hold me, an unfamiliar fragrance, a thread of self connects with new sensations, infuses hope. It’s such a lovely, different sort of day from life in town: sweet cottages nestled up against the edges to our left, open water on the right, waves teasing as we walk along the beach: mother, brother, female, her friendly son my age and size, and me. Lac St-Joseph, Quebec, summer, 1961 or ’60. Toxic cognitions infect me long after that day has passed: I can’t get a break. It always ends like this. Nothing ever changes. Experienced in French, but installed in English. Thoughts I can’t escape. A big wave, and the boy is wet, but surely he’s not cold – it’s hot. It’s true I have an undershirt to share, and we’re both three or four, so it’s bound to fit. But I don’t want to strip half naked in this open space.
