I want to be back in the woods.
I want to be back by the lake, ringed by Canada's greatest majesties -- I want to be looking at the multilayered greens of pines and maples and a million different leaves --
I realized, staring across that lake, that while I lost my breath with every countryside drive-by in Europe, while the springtime palegreen shade of everything was magical and mysterious somehow, the vivid rainbow of greens in Canada is nothing I've seen anywhere else.
(It took a lot for me to learn to see that, though.)
I want to be back playing with Shadow, the happy-mutt-family-dawg of the neighbouring site, I want to be back curled up in the tent against the rain, chewing through book after book with not a single responsibility except deeply emotional cuddle breaks and maybe dinner.
I want to be back in that antique shop in Nipissing, wondering if I'll ever find the time to refurbish that coffre and if we really need one.
I want to be back wandering up the street in Powassan, eating roasted marshmellow ice cream from the restaurant-cornerstore-icecreamshop place.
I want to be back in the tiny greasy spoon by the side of the highway near Sundridge, listening to the crunch of fried chicken the way it used to sound on the first commercials I watched as a Canadian.
I want to be back in Huntsville, even, or that whore of Bracebridge, wandering past the yuppie stores and realizing that despite the stunning wood of that one furniture store -- I have not yet lost myself so much as to want shiny things, shiny life, shiny shallow streets.
I want to be back in the celebratory de-muckifying bathtub, Dave wrapped so tightly around me.
Mostly, though --
I want to be back in the woods.