“My Winnipeg is an old man in a moth-bitten buffalo coat.
He got it from his father, who used to be a police officer here before the streetcars went to rust. It was balled up in the attic, stuffed in a pair of tattered Eaton’s bags and crushed beneath a box which held his mother’s set of silver. The forks and serving spoons were black with tarnish; he made his daughter take them to the pawn shop. She never came back with any money: he hopes she just took them home, but never thinks to ask.”read more