"Where are you off to now?"
I should have asked it that, as it bobbed across my path, but I didn't.
I was fourteen, I didn't understand what I'd just seen.
Now I'm seventeen and just enough time has passed that homes could seems worth revisiting.
Stupid forces call me back to them; to the time and place
where the Winters are more sincere
and you never needed to worry about red balloons or truth and beauty bombs.
Despite my better judgment, I have the insane urge to revisit Fort Frances. I don't know what it is I'd expect to find there other than the same old wasteland complete with marauding bandits. Maybe I'm looking for closure, or some obscure feeling of understanding. Maybe I want to understand where I came from?
There's nothing there to understand; just bones and railroad tracks and one highway into town; a cemetery beside a pulp and paper mill, and a lake.
Oh, and the bass tournament.