Scotland
Cycling off for the day on a Sunday by myself
green and treed, Old Aberdeen High Street left behind,
past the cathedral,
the country spread before me to the sea, purple with heather,
yellow with gorse, spreading over the hills
or
the library at the head of the High Street,
old, oak tables and books upon books,
a treasure trove of different lives, different worlds
in which I could live for awhile
or
in my kilt and twinset, tie correctly knotted,
curtseying with the others as the teacher came into the room,
a roomful of girls in an orderly world,
one that expected them to learn, to succeed
not just as mothers but doctors, lawyers, scientists, poets, writers too
then
Winnipeg: strange, flat, cold, harsh climate, but warm people
welcoming the newcomers with their strange accents,
a Scottish burr laced through all the words, familiar or new,
school, no uniforms here, and boys, too –
a Scottish girl in kilt and tie curtseying to an astounded teacher,
amid laughtered ridicule ringing in the room
of boys and girls not necessarily expected to amount to anything,
thousands of miles from Albyn School for Girls.
Eventually,
Acclimatized,
post university and boyfriends,
a lingering kiss from a woman friend, and the sudden urgent desire
followed up, so life changed on a heartbeat —
and mine was pounding –
another leap into another life:
as profound a change
as immigration
and as permanent.
