I wish I knew what it was to be Canadian. The trip made me think about prairies and deer and rodeos and northern lights and church bells and snow, but I’m not sure I’m more Canadian for going. I’m not going to say that “Canada was in me the whole time,” as much as Elisia and I joked about ending our stories with that, because I always knew I had Canada in me. If I could walk to school every day since childhood in below twenty while wearing an unbuttoned jacket and without a toque or mitts, I think I may qualify.
However, I think I might invalidate my Canadian status when I say this: The Donut Mill was so much better than Tim Hortons.
As for the sea monkeys, they died before they could live. It seemed we failed at playing God. We talked about making up that they were alive and that we carried the jar everywhere we went despite raised eyebrows and questions, but that never happened. Maybe it would have made a better story, but that would be semi-fiction, and this is nonfiction. The departure and death of the sea monkeys might have been an emotional end to my story, but I’m more inclined to mourn the waste of the cup holder. I did not shed a tear when I parted with my would-be animal companions.
They were just sea monkeys. I mean, honestly.