The Home That Wasn't

I never lived on Cape Breton—just came when I could,chasing the quietlike a man chasing warmthin the smoke of another’s fire.

Still, the land spoke.Not in words,but in wind through tamarackand loon-call twilightover Bras d’Or’s patient blue.
Derek Hatfield, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/..., via Wikimedia Commons

I’ve seen it in all her moods—spring rising shy and soft,fog lifting like a veil from the hills.Summer thick with salt and sunburn,kids leaping from docks,the echo of laughter carryingfarther than it should.

But it was autumn that claimed me.A blaze of fire in the trees,like the whole island had set itself alightjust to say: look what you could belong to— if only you’d stay.

Even winter felt less cruel there.Snow drifted slow as thought,and the cold didn’t biteso much as inviteyou inward—to stew pots, old tunes,the hush of a worldthat doesn’t beg to be conquered.

Every visit, I thought—maybe next time,maybe I'll plant something herebesides footsteps.Maybe I’ll let these shoresclaim me proper.

But the years came fast,and the rest of my lifestayed tethered elsewhere—to jobs,to promises,to people who never heardthe lilt in the windthat I did.

Now, I know—I’ll never live there.Never see the leaves turnfrom the same porchyear after year.Never watch the ice creep inand think, this is mine to wait out.

Still, when I dream,it’s of spruce shadows,and gulls wheeling abovea quiet that forgives mefor never belonging.

Maybethat’s what made it homeall along—not the claim I made on it,but how gentlyit never asked.

 

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