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Patricia Boushel

01 Jul Patricia Boushel

On Moving And Being Moved Away From

 

It happens all the time, we know the cycle of months & years leading up to the bittersweet string of this season’s lasts—last hang in the park, farewell drink at Casa, final Italia latte. I’m becoming grateful for the spreading out of the final chapter of others’ Montreal story; a few in February, a plentiful May, pre-emptive November finales. Yet still a devastating chorus of au revoirs on this day of varying nationalistic alienation for some, repatriation for others.

I awoke in a small town in Italy while some of you were having your last dreams in the modest shadow of Mont Royal. And I cried. I cried for those (everywhere) who are still seeking a fertile, hospitable place to lead their own unique, exalted life. I cried for wishing all those migrants the knowledge that they are never just visiting, no matter what the man says. We all count. And I cried for this selfish little heart and its ever-changing personal history and topology of my Montreal.

Take this as a love letter to those of you who are feeling tender upon leaving and upon being left. Thank you for having come here, thank you for having stayed a while, thank you for having participated in this phenomenal thing that is our space and time (but not our land, that’s a whole other story). And for those of us not going anywhere and who aren’t part of a more transient community, thank you for acknowledging this feeling.

Let us all just keep on taking the world into our arms, whether we’re coming or going.

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