Leaving Home
Both of us sat at the table and neither of us said anything. Or at least not anything much. Today was the day. I was leaving home. Grade 12 was finished. I had written the last final exam a few days ago. Now it was time to go and face the world. I had no idea where I was going, but I knew that I had to go. The pizza came with a free bottle of Coke, so we had pizza and Coke. My two cats bounded in and out of the apartment over the balcony. They knew what the backpack meant. They knew I was going away. They didn’t know forever. “Here Smiley,” I crooned, “Here Smingala.” They came to be petted and scratched. They purred as I rubbed noses with them. “Have you got enough warm clothes?” my mother asked. It was her way of expressing love: to be concerned about my survival. “Yes Mom, of course.” I said, and brushed my hair out of my face. There was nothing to be said. My backpack was on the balcony. It was an old green Trapper Nelson. I had packed it with my sleeping ...