Stories from Sackville, Part V: Belonging

Looking out the window on the train from Sackville to DC (via Montreal and NYC) I'm filled with such a sad sense of leaving the place where I belong most. Every birch and pine, the old farms and fields, the ponds and marshlands, the birds, the snow, the churches and little white Maritime house, the hilly landscape and majestic dead trees, the empty winding roads, the villages – seen in their entirety from the train and understood as a single entity –, the cows and horses, the bilingual signs, the red mud of the Bay of Fundy and the simple bridges that span across it – all these things seem to tear a piece out of me as I pass by them, holding them ransom until my return. And what about all the people? And Sackville? They've definitely taken their share too.

Of course, I've left parts of myself behind in several other places, which makes it really heartwarming to return there as well, but I think there's more of me in Sackville than anywhere else. That's why I'd say it's where I belong most; it's where I'm most complete.