Register Wednesday | March 20 | 2019


Except for the front row, the room is crowded. I am not up to the front row. I spot one empty space in the back. Once I see that space, I don’t bother with the front row or any other, although I’m not sure why I don’t.

There is a woman up front; she is talking, her voice smooth as butter, a song of comfort ringing underneath. She must be forty, but she carries herself like a gracefully aging youth. My knee tickles a little, an old habit plaguing me. It started the first time I sat in the lunchroom at Saint Mary’s Residential school. I was six. I am not sure why the tickle came, but when it did, made me squirm in my seat. Every time I squirmed, one of the brothers would come over and bark, “Sit still, Henry.” Henry, it was not ...

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