Stories

So there I was, 19 years old, living in Halifax by myself. I remember putting together shelves while listening to Stevie Wonder on the record player, hanging twinkly lights on my balcony, and feeling like a grown-up buying milk at the local Sobey’s.

Halifax became my home. It was the first time I felt independent, the first time I lived on my own, and the first time I felt as though I could really shape who I wanted to become. I made friends. I studied. I worked. I did indeed wear chunky turtlenecks as I walked to my local coffeeshop to read. I fell in love with my community and the life I created. And perhaps most importantly, I started writing.

The last time I saw you, I knew it would be the last time. Isn’t that a strange feeling? To say goodbye to someone and know you’ll never see them again.

“I’ll see you in a couple of months,” you said to me, your mouth pressed against my ear. We were the same height. I felt the stubble on your chin brush against my cheek as you pulled away, the scent of you lingering for just a moment. Above us was a bright blue sky, an early morning sun. Shopkeepers were just starting to unpack the city, pulling chairs out on café sidewalks, opening shutters on the fruit stalls. A man wearing a loose suit jacket swept outside his bookstore, a steady rhythm of straw hitting concrete.

“I’ll see you in a couple of months,” I echoed, grabbing my backpack off of the cobblestones. We kissed one more time, a quick one, and you tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear.

“Ciao,” you smiled at me.

“Ciao,” I smiled back, turning toward the train station, all the air leaving my lungs.

As I packed up my blanket, still flying high from the previous hour and a half of amazing music, I realised something: I hadn’t taken any photos of the performers. In fact, I thought, I hadn’t taken many photos at all over the past three days at Folk Fest. I had brought all of my camera equipment, made sure every battery was charged, every lens cleaned, and yet… I had barely thought to take my camera out of its bag.

2017 held a lot of great moments for me, but it also held a few not-so-great moments, too. Here is the This Battered Suitcase 2017 review: the good, the bad, and the oh so very ugly.

This is how your heart breaks: slowly and deliberately, and then all at once. A story about falling in and out of love.

The last time I saw you, we hugged goodbye at the airport. It was cold outside, a dark November morning. The air felt sharp in my lungs, like if I breathed in…