On Home

Kate waits at the bus stop with her hood pulled tight, slim silhouette with a brown coat and blue leg warmers. Everything else is white, or at least grey – we are in the eye of a shaken snow globe, and Ottawa disappears in the whirl. Two layers of gloves, furry boots just liberated from storage, long underwear, woolen socks, and a scarf I looped around her face myself: This is Ottawa at thirty below, the 10^th of February; the wind keens around the chimney smoke then slips up your sleeve.  

          

A few days ago she was in Nicaragua, sipping a Tona in a hammock in our fairy godmother’s garden. A black puppy yapped at first but she soothed it to sleep by stroking his ears. Thirty-five degrees but cooler in the shade and that Tona may be watery but it certainly quenches. Sunscreen. Bug repellant. An umbrella for the sun. The wind is cooling but it shakes the mangoes from the tree; they squelch and startle the dog. Kate has fallen asleep with her laptop on her stomach. She wakes an hour later with butterflies in her hair.

Now she has arrived home in Ottawa after five months in Managua, a thirteen-hour delay in Chicago, the endless hoops of customs and security, a few hours unsatisfying sleep on an airport bench in Houston, and a sixty-degree drop in temperature. I met her at the airport with her coat and mitts; we hugged and sniffled at each other as people shuffled past with their luggage – it was like a movie. The delight of coming home. When mundane things become exciting, like Timmy’s coffee, or cheesy pretzels, or even the orderly way the traffic moves without careening or honking, despite the slush-sprayed windows and patches of murder-ice. Looking around at the city Kate asks, “Where are all the people? Why is it so quiet?” The bus, for which we’ve been shivering, arrives with a squeal of metal and douses our boots with slush. Onboard, I lean in to Kate, “Do you hear that? I’m the only one talking on the entire bus!”

We are staying at a friend’s place where books line the walls and the smell of coffee permeates. Getting in the door we fling away the boots, toques, scarves, gloves, jackets, leg warmers, and second layer of socks. There is a soft blanket; I mummify us. Ah yes, how could I forget those icy feet of the grave nibbling at my warmth! She says, “I can’t believe we only have a week together before you go to China.” I say, “It will move so fast, you could blink and miss it.” She curls a little closer.  

On the drive from Ottawa to Toronto to visit Kate’s family the snow falls relentlessly on our rental car. A five-hour trip grows to an eleven-hour odyssey when we realize we forgot a passport necessary for our endless visa administration; I stop the car and pick up coffee, gas and Red Bull. When I return, Kate is wielding pen and paper: “Let’s brainstorm for our last blog post.” In Nicaragua the blog was our demonic overlord, pushing a camera into our hands, demanding its weekly tribute: a slice of brains. Now it is an old friend who makes us sad when we visit because she keeps staring off into a vacant corner and talking about "the good old days.” We keep ourselves so busy we don’t notice the ticking clock: Captain Hook’s crocodilian nemesis. The ride is long enough for us to run out of paper and words; Kate begins to drift off (“I did not drift off!” she protests) and I slip my hand into hers. Our fingers tangle.  

In Toronto we slip away to grab a moment together and a coffee. She sips from a mug the size of her head; I snap photos to remember her by. Looking back, I wish there was more Kate in the photos, and less mug. In this moment we are feeling particularly adrift; we have grown confused by the idea of home. Is it Canada, Nicaragua, France, China? It has become a moving target. It used to be wherever my books were, but then I bought an e-reader. Now I think it has something to do with Kate and a fuzzy blanket.

It’s our last night together before I fly to China; I must have blinked. The hockey bag and the duffel bag and the gym bag are all lying in a heap in the hall. I’ve arranged tomorrow’s socks and underwear – my passport and tickets are in the binder on the desk. Kate scans the preparations and for a long minute doesn’t say anything, just stares at her hands from where she sits cross-legged on the bed. I sit next to her and rub her back softly. Her lip quivers. She says, “Matt, I don’t want you to go. You’re my favourite person” and I cry.

The next day there is too much snow on the ground for the cabbie to make it down the street. I heave the hockey bag on my back and Kate shoulders the rest. I will remember her overladen, snow-pelted, icicles of tears. I will remember her strong, skipping up the side of Maderas as I panted in the heat. I will remember her mermaiding in the Corn Islands, shrieking at a cockroach in Managua, leaping from the rocks at Somoto. I am picturing her with butterflies in her hair. I am trying not to blink.

Follow @MattJJones500