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184 pages, Paperback
Published October 1, 2022
We’ve never lived on earth. I point this out to him as the bus veers up the street. In the world we’re creating together, no animals exist, no seasons either. We live eight storeys up and never touch soil. We follow highways not rivers. We name our heat waves after our grandmothers. We pretend our pain is weather. We dream of houses we’ll never own. Of second homes, seventy minutes out of the city. Of well-lit rooms and comfortable chairs, of gardens, but never children. ~We Have Never Lived on Earth
Lukas said that he imagined that the moon would be a lot like Antarctica, a place he planned to travel to. It would be remote and cold, but life was certainly possible with the right equipment. If I lived there, on the moon, he meant, he promised to visit. Only if I invite you, I said. ~How to be Silent in German
Kent and his friends Jake and Roy joined us and we continued south together, like the monarchs, finding security in numbers. We stopped at the 7-Eleven to buy Fuzzy Peaches and Twizzlers, which allowed me to get a better look at Kent. He was tall and thin in the effortless way of adolescent boys and supermodels. Though — Lucia often reminded me — supermodels live on diets of Coke Zero and iceberg lettuce to maintain their birdbath collarbones; teenage boys do not. His thick hair slid over his eyes making my aorta cancel all blood circulation to my head.
What have you lost?
People mostly, I tell him. Not just my parents, who are both alive, on separate continents; or Lukas, who is alive but no longer writes; not just friends, who, at one point, occupied large quadrants of my attention but now don’t seem to matter anymore. Like a film projected on water, they waver and disappear. It’s not just lovers, either, with their seed bank of memories, or the woman, sleeping in her toy tent on some lifeguard-less beach, or in her houseboat, alone, or the toddler at the train station in Montreal, or the injured octopus…