For someone who writes obsessively about time, memory, about family history (what’s lost, what’s found), about the small legacies we carry in our bodies, I am sometimes caught completely off guard. This morning, a photo from Edmonton, my granddaughter (she’ll be 3 in July), riding the balance bike we gave her for her last birthday:
And on my desk, this photograph of my dad, also age 3, in Drumheller, on what looks like a birthday bike (so it must have been October 1929):
The same fierce concentration, the same body language. Though it has to be said, my dad isn’t wearing a tutu.