The Lake House was the perfect place.

People were few but the birds were plenty. We watched their migration over the lake, as they headed farther north than we’ve ever been. But the eagles stayed. We could spot their heads, white against the dark of pine, then watch them swoop down, their talons piercing the still of the water and their victory rise to the tip of the tallest tree. The eagles caught more fish than the men in boats, who called out to each other in a tongue that had become more common to our ear than English, bridging our two worlds.

For years, we called China home, though it could never really be. One day, we knew, whether by choice or not, we’d leave.

We did. And it broke my heart. 

There are people in China I love, friends who have become family. There are streets I’ve walked where my heart bursts with joy. There’s our 15th floor apartment where I read my kids stories, and the river path with its red soil where we rode bikes. There were the smiles of my kids, the brightness in their eyes.

There were my walks by the river with friends and the rows of eucalyptus trees, a hundred years old with stories to tell. Some of them are my stories now.

Then there was Canada. A world buried deep in my memories. A country I could no longer imagine living in. Even if I was there again, I thought, it could never be home. Through years away, I’d changed too much.

Yet we had to return. Our time had come. 

We had a place to stay in Canada, a place waiting for us. A place we dreamed of and the dream got us through the tears of the last of our hundred good-byes.

It’s the Lake House of friends so generous. The place this blog was birthed. A place of creativity, a place of life.