Full Circle

The first thing I did once back in Montreal was order a poutine decked out with sauteed vegetables. This is the first poutine I've had/craved since the infamous(?) first bite I enjoyed with Leif. It seemed natural, my "welcome back" handshake with the city and the language. Somehow two and a half months in Montreal was not enough time to root me, and my return to the great nation of 'Merica seemed to stretch me a little thin, disorient me. I walked home from Montreal's central bus station and tried to decipher whether I engaged the city differently this time around, whether the place had shifted in my absence, whether my love of the bakeries and the cafés au lait had been lost somewhere over the Great Lakes or in Lincoln's historic district or in the buffet at my grandmother's wedding reception. Needless to say, both leaving and returning is odd. Although my visit to Nebraska seems like nothing more than a slight blip in time (I'm startled at how quickly it all fades), Montreal too suffered a bit of neglect while I was away. Are we only capable of living in one place at a time, devoting all energies to that approachable landscape? And if that's the case, how does one explain that persistent longing for the next major change or significant move? Oh transient soul!

But I'm hyper aware of the throb of time, the repetitions and cycles. My ordering a fancy-pants poutine recalls my earliest days in Montreal, all the while demonstrating a certain city savvy that I lacked before (knowing this time that it would be best to order it at Patati Patata on St. Laurent, and that the vegetable addition was a nice revamping of the classic). My return confirmed that life is chock-full of circles, and not just of the Montrealan variety. My grandma was a widow for fifteen years, and last week, later in life, she walked down the aisle--sophisticated in her silver chiffon. And she pulled out ALL the stops--corsages, candlelighters (imagine yours truly in a glitzy dress, hoping not to burn down the church), a too-cute ringbearer, polka bands and dancing. Obviously I was not alive when she married my grandfather, but I was around when he died. As shocking as death may seem, it's delightfully shocking when marriage can arrive AFTER death. And somehow this cycle, grand-scale with regards to the poutine I ordered yesterday, assures me that although one can relish the small things, sometimes the unexpected delivery of big surprises or significant repetitions of life's cycles remind us that we shouldn't always take comfort in the small, but rather we should expect grand things. On that note, I wait for your comments on how cheezy I've become. But listen, folks. It's the holidays, and hammy Jordan is here until at least mid-January.