The house my father owned for all of my
26 years sold this summer
while he and my stepmother were touring English villages.
We drove by on the way to new-home,
and the scarlet tulips he and my mother planted when I was born
are covered by a fresh concrete walkway.
So little of what is mine lives in this town now.
He made me a soft-boiled egg this morning
(though did not cut my toast into soldiers)
I had forgotten how to eat from the egg-cup
in the many years since I was a child.
My damaged younger brother
cried on the phone while asking him for money the night I arrived.
I overheard his voice going stern during the conversation.
We drove on the rainy highway
green mountainous curtains parting before our car
while snaky tendrils of white cloud trailed through the trees.
My stepmother sat in my spot in the backseat
so I could see the river
and I argued with him about Nisga’a land rights
looked out the rain-pebbled window at the
wide green Skeena and thought
how do I keep this minute forever