By LYS GRANIER
Photo courtesy of the author.
Montréal, Québec, Canada
Le petit bois a brûlé. Le petit bois a brûlé. Where I went to pick up asparagus in the spring. Where I saw a dead mole on the path and cried for hours. Where we had that secret patch of mushrooms. Des petits gris, my parents called them. Where the pines smelled of summer and safety. Where I went for my first walk in the snow. The only time I saw the woods in the snow. Where I threw a handful of road gravel in the tiny stream every time I crossed the bridge. The wood where I pictured my dad reincarnated as a fox. Where we had to wear red and be loud during hunting season. Where boars would dig up moss on the side of the path.
