If we both didn’t love Home so much

Today I envisioned what it might be like if I bumped into you tomorrow as you’re showing your friend around the city. I’d give you a kiss on the cheek, but it would be closer to your mouth than he would dare because I am not cautious in this way. He’d think me suave and maybe he’d even bare his truth then and there and we’d tear each other apart like monkeys with teeth that contort in situations like these. Everyone would settle in time, and you and I’d remain fixed to one another as the fire hose fastens to the hydrant. You could meet my friends, too, and they would ask me about your unknowable quality, so obviously dangling like bait. You’d appreciate the music – that it’s not just me listening after all. I’d take you to the farm so you could smell what permeated through my aughts and makes my eyes glaze over if left unspoken to. We’d go to Gaspé and you’d do the talking. We’d forget Italian together. There’d be twenty names I could say that would all call you to me. I would stay busy cultivating the small field of crops you need to remind you of your mother. You’d have her secret book and your sister would be pissed. We’d drive further out the coast, stand on the beach and look out before running in, for you’d need a moment to dissolve the images of your family in the little mists above the waves. I’d hold your hand and you’d cry but there’d be happiness. On walks in the inland, you would ask me for names – of trees, people, birds. I’d introduce you and you’d be gracious. You’d always be gracious.