I’ve seen him a few times, always on the Yonge subway line in Toronto.
So this is Christmas, and the only thing that may make this season less than holly-jolly for me is the burgeoning question: how many thank-you note
It is January. The hard snow makes crunching noises beneath your feet.
“The Queen eats fiddleheads when she comes to Canada!” my father proclaimed. “They’re a delicacy!”
My parents always knew that I was going to be shy. I started clinging to my mother’s long, beige coat as soon as I learned how to walk.