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I hate my village1/1/2023 To make your way downtown, you’ll have to traverse the Kemick Canal, its crinolined torrents now fully frozen. Then there is my public park, which includes a hockey rink and two-dozen towering conifers. I move west to east, starting with my six houses, the bourgeois ones placed closer to my church. Once all the boxes have emerged from their summer hibernation, I begin. My mother has already resigned herself to hosting next week’s dinner party for twelve around the kitchen counter. So now I am back in Calgary, hauling an unending line of boxes out from my parents’ basement and into their dining room. I moved out of my parents’ house at seventeen, but my heart has never left-not out of some romantic notion of remembering my roots, but because the idea of renting an apartment with enough room to store my Christmas village borders on lunacy.
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