Fragments Of Frost And Fire - Episode 7 - The Home That Wasn't

 The Home That Wasn't

I never lived on Cape Breton—

just came when I could,

chasing the quiet

like a man chasing warmth

in the smoke of another’s fire.

Still, the land spoke.

Not in words,

but in wind through tamarack

and loon-call twilight

over Bras d’Or’s patient blue.

Derek Hatfield, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

I’ve seen it in all her moods—

spring rising shy and soft,

fog lifting like a veil from the hills.

Summer thick with salt and sunburn,

kids leaping from docks,

the echo of laughter carrying

farther than it should.

But it was autumn that claimed me.

A blaze of fire in the trees,

like the whole island had set itself alight

just to say: look what you could belong to—

if only you’d stay.

Even winter felt less cruel there.

Snow drifted slow as thought,

and the cold didn’t bite

so much as invite

you inward—

to stew pots, old tunes,

the hush of a world

that doesn’t beg to be conquered.

Every visit, I thought—

maybe next time,

maybe I'll plant something here

besides footsteps.

Maybe I’ll let these shores

claim me proper.

But the years came fast,

and the rest of my life

stayed tethered elsewhere—

to jobs,

to promises,

to people who never heard

the lilt in the wind

that I did.

Now, I know—

I’ll never live there.

Never see the leaves turn

from the same porch

year after year.

Never watch the ice creep in

and think, this is mine to wait out.

Still, when I dream,

it’s of spruce shadows,

and gulls wheeling above

a quiet that forgives me

for never belonging.

Maybe that’s what made it home

all along—

not the claim I made on it,

but how gently

it never asked.

 

Support Independent Content Creation

I know, I know, I know...

These donation messages can be intrusive. I understand that. (Trust me, I feel awkward writing them too!)

But reaching out like this is crucial. Being reader-funded gives my work something valuable that many content creators don't have: true independence.

1. Your support means I can write about what matters. I'm not chasing sponsorships or compromising my voice to please advertisers. I can pursue stories and topics I believe are important, creative, and thoughtful, regardless of their commercial appeal.

2. Your support means I don't have to chase viral trends. Instead of engineering clickbait or jumping on every passing bandwagon, I can focus on creating thoughtful content that genuinely adds value to your life.

3. Your support means this content remains freely accessible. My work stays available to everyone, including those who can't afford to contribute financially right now. Quality independent content should be accessible to all.

I understand not everyone is in a position to contribute, but if you found any value in this post you can

For the price of a coffee, you'll enable me to invest more time in creating in-depth, creative journal posts and episodes of the Stone & Signal podcast. If you'd like to contribute more, consider purchasing one of my e-books (priced at roughly two cups of coffee) – a way to support my work while gaining additional value for yourself.

Thank you for considering. Your support makes all the difference.