There is something about Canada that I cannot quite put my finger on. I see it flashing past me through the window of a car, slim branches sprouting tender leaves, as if almost afraid of the sky they will blossom into. The sky opens up ahead of me and my eyes prick—there is a glaringness here that is diffused, but present. At night, a racoon watches me as I type, lit blue by my computer screen as he preens himself. His paw prints turn the light wood dark—the only trace of him