I have lost myself and I search for her on December streets lined with French Canadian tree sellers and their pagan trees that smell like winter, like cold fresh air in northern forests. As I pass I hear glimpses of the deepwoods Quebecois patois that sounds like a half-forgotten dream. Pieces of the world puzzle tumble through my senses as I inhale the scents of Ethiopian injera topped with a dozen deeply-flavoured dishes one night, and Indian bhel puri and lamb korma the next. But the deepest puzzle piece eludes me as I plunge down stairways and ride trains through tunnels and surface to other streetlights reflected in the wet pavement that sings as cars brush past and vanish into points of red light at the next corner.
As I become more than whole I fear the self I am searching for is gone forever.
