Andre Fenton - Annaka

They say the first stage of grief is denial, and I speak from experience when I say thats true. When I heard the news, I felt numb. Like someone unexpectedly hit the pause button on my feelings. I guess we always carry the expectation that the people we look up to will never die, but when they do you begin to realize how mortal the rest of us really are. When I heard about my grandfather, I was in the main office of my school. There had been a call waiting for me. It was Mom, and her voice was cracking but it was strong. Its blurry, but I remember not being able to answer when she told me. I just sat there. Frozen.

Anna? Anna, can you hear me? I heard Moms voice. She was in her minivan, on the way to pick me up.

I hear you, I said quietly. But I dont want to believe it.

Me neither, babe. Im coming to get you. We have to head home.

Home. Thats a tough one.

A couple of days later, Mom and I packed her minivan. We were heading to our hometown: Yarmouth. When we turned on to the highway I sunk into the passenger seat with earphones in both ears, trying to erase the fact that my grandfathers funeral was the next day. You would think losing someone I shared some of my earliest memories with would cut deep, would make me want to cry or slam my fists on the vans dashboard, but I still felt more numb than anything else. I felt anywhere but present, and being on that highway felt like existing in between fiction and reality, between Halifax and Yarmouth. I knew when we made it to Yarmouth, everything would hit. I had to face the fact that grief had made it home before I ever did. It had been ten years, and we were finally going home. I wanted to soak in that highway of ignorance for just a little longer. This was new territory for Mom and me; we let silence fill the air, not really knowing what to say or how to translate our feelings. I had never lost anyone before, but I guess thats because I never really had too many people to lose.

When I was a kid, my mom and I lived with my grandparents until I was seven, my Mom moved to Halifax and brought me along with her. Even though Ive lived there for half my life, Halifax never really felt like home to me. Home was where the magic was, and Yarmouth was a place of magic for me. A place where my grandfather built me a tree house and I could stay up there all night looking at a sky illuminated by the stars. A sky that looked like it was full of freshly lit matches. In Halifax, they were always dying out.

I had always wanted to return, but under the circumstances I was more fearful than anything elsefearful that the person who made Yarmouth magic was gone. Thered be no more giant hugs that kept me better grounded than gravity ever has. No more riding downtown in the passenger seat of Grampys antique truck, feeling the cool air of the summer breeze blowing in from the waterfront with him. Those moments always meant a lot to me, and now I had to come to terms with those moments only being memories.

I began to drift off. Sitting in the passenger seat did that to me, but also Mom and I had spent the majority of the previous night prepping for our trip. She had told me that she didnt know how long we would be gone for, but to be prepared. I didnt know what that meant, so I brought a lot with me. We were in a minivan; we had the space.

My earliest memories were all tinged with magic. Not that it amazed me, or anything. When you grow up around it you just sort of assume thats the way life is. Its not until you leave it behind that you realize it isnt exactly normal. When I was a kid, my best friend was magic.

Dont freak out quite yet.

He could cover the lake outside of my grandparents house with ice, even on a July day. How did he do it? I never knew, and didnt question. I just remember my hand wrapped around his as the rest of the world just disappeared; the lake stayed, though, and we would skate beneath the stars. When I first met him, his hands were soft and grey, so I called him Clay. He came into my world as I drew him in my journal: two arms, two legs, and a lot of heartbut always too innocent. I knew I had to hide my imaginary friend away from the world. He was both my best friend and best kept secret.

Clay could recreate anything I wrote in my journal. It was almost like dreaming, but I was always wide awake. This wasnt just any journal, either; it was the journal my grandfather gave me on my first day of grade primary. He told me that it used to be his, and now that I was starting school, he was passing it along to me. He was a teacher, and a big believer in writing journal entries. He drilled that into me as a kid, said it was important to keep track of ourselves. I got tired of it pretty quickly, and often let my imagination run wild in that thing. There were more drawings than entries, and thats how Clay came about.

I remember spending a lot of time with Clay in the tree house. Some nights we were accompanied by a summer breeze, other times we were surrounded by the falls red leaves. We shared some timeless moments up in that tree house, and there I was wishing those nostalgic moments would last forever. But one thing I have learned is that magic always finds an end. I want to say I grew out of it, but the truth is my mom and I left it behind.

I wasnt ready, and neither was Clay. I didnt want to leave Grampy and Nan. My grandfather and I had a unique relationshiphe was my first superhero, and the only father figure I ever had. I never met my father, but Grampy was always enough for me. Every Sunday we had our routine: Id climb in his big red truck on the passenger side. Hed put it in drive, turn to me, and ask: Are you ready, co-pilot?