going back to saltspring
island, where I will wander by cedar stands and touch the peeling flesh of the arbutus tree. I will look out over that other vast expanse, the one that confounds prairie-dwellers. I'll smile at the locals (both the tree huggers and the engine-gunning rednecks) who surely still hate us, the ignorant trampling tourists, with a salt-cured zeal. Do the old guys still play Jazz on Sunday nights at Moby's? Has the farmers' market begun yet? Truckloads of smoked salmon, firewood and more fine tie-dyed goods than you can shake a bidi at. Maybe I'll rent a little scooter, and me and Tracey will ride to Fulford Harbour and watch the otters fooling around by the docks. Really, we can do anything we want.
Maybe I'll even kiss a sunset pig (?)