I pack my little silver hatchback up to the windows, solid, with toolboxes, bags of clothes, some fabric, a dress dummy.

"Oh, my little girl!" my mother croons, pats my cheek, takes a photo of me in front of my little car. My dad huffs into his moustache and wanders off to find a map of the west coast. His parting gift to me was a tire gauge.

I secretly like the fussing, but I'm also anxious to leave. I never feel like myself when I'm visiting my parents. I long to feel whole again, relaxed again.

My loaded car moves sluggishly into the cool morning sun.

~

The highway traffic is light. Not many are travelling the mountain passes early on a thursday morning.

A camper here, a work vehicle there. A few other cars.

The trees form a standing guard on either side of the road.

I can see the beige truck, jacked up on high tires, leapfrogging the sparse traffic behind me.

He comes up on me fast, crowding up against my back window until I can see nothing but grill.

I maintain my speed, because fuck you. Also, we're on the upward slope of a pass, and my poor little car (his name is Wallace) is struggling to take me and my things safely up and over.

A passing section. Finally.

The beige truck swings wide and growls past me, over the hump, and he's gone.

Fucking finally. The day returns to it's blue capped, green lined perfection.

I crest the hill.

The beige truck is pulled over to the side of the road, and there is an RCMP officer in a high-vis vest having some words with him through his window.

As I pass, I see the two RCMP cars backed up into the logging road. The other RCMP officer behind the bush, his speed gun pointing at the crest of the hill.

What a perfect day.

~

I stop in a little town for an early lunch.

Three fist-sized perogies, cooked perfectly by two women of obvious Russian descent.

A man with stunted bandy legs and an obvious mental deficiency makes conversation with me as I wait for my lunch.

"I live on this borscht," he says to me proudly. "Every day. It's the best borscht."

The waitress smiles at him indulgently and hands him a large bucket, which he takes outside somewhere, an obvious routine.

~

The trees give way to low scrub. The sun, cool in the mountains, is hot and oppressive in the desert climate.

The mountains are weather worn, sagging toward the earth, brown and crumbling. Orchards dot the valley like fallen leaves.

I stop at a fruit stand. The smell of peaches rubs against me like a cat, so I buy a bag. Some hot sauce. Honey. I linger too long, but I like it here, amongst the growing things.

When I turn the key in my car, Mika blasts out of the speakers. I'd forgotten I'd had it so loud, there in the quiet of the valley.

Onwards and westwards.

~

The desert gives way to younger mountains, with sharp caps.

They crowd the highway, sheer-faced behemoths.

They look unreal, like a comic. Like someone made cardstock cut-outs, and shoved them up against the road.

The road gets more traffic, and more traffic.

I follow the flow until I realize I'm reaching speeds of 130km an hour, then I think I should probably slow down a little.

I push through, through the setting sun trying to leak in under my sun visor, and get deep into the city before darkness falls.

~

Dinner is waiting for me when I arrive. It feels weird, to be staying in this place I once lived. To see stuff I left behind, now put to other uses.

The cats don't remember me. The fat one tries to take a chunk out of my hand.

So weird, so weird.

Here I go again, on my own.

.

Rosie.

Before&After