On a rainy morning in Missinipe, a woman climbs into a graphite-colour pickup truck and drives away. She is heavy with child. From the porch, her husband watches and solemnly waves goodbye. They have never spent more than a few days apart; now they must endure months. Though he knows through and through that his wife will be back, the husband’s mind is hopelessly drawn to last time he watched someone pack away half the house and leave. That time it was permanent.
They are stoic and strong in their embrace, neither willing to show the other any weakness. The man whispers something in his wife’s ear.
“People do it all the time,” they say, trying and failing to find solace in this truth.
In a month’s time, the husband will drive south to meet the wife and they will welcome their newborn into the world. The husband will stay for a while and hold his infant son a handful of times before returning to the general store the family operates in Missinipe. Then they will be apart again with their separate burdens, the tethered strain of distance somehow alleviated by the promise of all being together soon. A new family.
But not today.
There’s an abandoned boat floating in the middle of the lake. I ask one of the dockhands if we should be concerned. Is anyone missing? Did someone fall in?
“It’s just a Native boat,” he says. “They never tie them up. Where they end up is just…where they end up.”
Until next time.
Dylan – Missinipe, SK – Day 25