We just booked flights to Ontario to visit my family and friends there. Colin (and Sloane obviously) has never been so I'm excited to show him the land of lakes and cityscapes with deeper history than we experience here. Booking a new trip always gives me the motivation to work through previously unedited (from 3 years ago....) photos.
I feel a bit of self consciousness as I think of showing Colin around my grandparents cottage and the town I grew up in. The things that spark my memory and fill my senses are so little, in a way. The acorns I fed to chipmunks. The creaky stairs and quiet corners where I imagined I was a settler or a lady in petticoats a la Little Women. The tiny inlet where I reenacted the scene from Anne of Green Gables where she pretends she is the "lady of shalott" in a canoe. The sun on the rocks. The breeze in my hair. The terror I felt at things beneath the water of the lake. All these things mean so much, but only to me. So perhaps I will have to keep most of the nostalgia to myself and let fresh memories write themselves on my heart and senses.