Late October 1972, and snow had already set in. One of the coldest winters in decades. No furnace those first winter months, only woodstoves. My parents slept in shifts to stoke the fires. Woodsmoke clinging to the air, smothering our flannel with its cloying musk, my father joking he’d been an Eskimo1 in another life, when Eskimos were still called Eskimos and none of us knowing he’d be gone in three years, leaving for a different family on another frigid morning, leaving my mother and me to carry in all the wood, but split, though—he’d made sure of that.
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i like the way you write, Amie. And thanks for the heads-up about the word 'Eskimo', i learnt something today :)
9 year old you was quite the artist x