Annaka

was a place of magic for me. A place where my grandfather built me a tree house and I could stay up there all night looking at a sky illuminated by the stars. A sky that looked like it was full of freshly lit matches. In Halifax, they were always dying out.
I had always wanted to return, but under the circumstances I was more fearful than anything else—fearful that the person who made Yarmouth magic was gone. There’d be no more giant hugs that kept me better grounded than gravity ever has. No more riding downtown in the passenger seat of Grampy’s antique truck, feeling the cool air of the summer breeze blowing in from the waterfront with him. Those moments always meant a lot to me, and now I had to come to terms with those moments only being memories.
I began to drift off. Sitting in the passenger seat did that to me, but also Mom and I had spent the majority of the previous night prepping for our trip. She had told me that she didn’t know how long we would be gone for, but to “be prepared.” I didn’t know what that meant, so I brought a lot with me. We were in a minivan; we had the space.
My earliest memories were all tinged with magic. Not that it amazed me, or anything. When you grow up around it you just sort of assume that’s the way life is. It’s not until you leave it behind that you realize it isn’t exactly normal. When I was a kid, my best friend was magic.
Don’t freak out quite yet.
He could cover the lake outside of my grandparents’ house with ice, even on a July day. How did he do it? I never knew, and didn’t question. I just remember my hand wrapped around his as the rest of the world just disappeared; the lake stayed, though, and we would skate beneath the stars. When I first met him, his hands were soft and grey, so I called him Clay. He came into my world as I drew him in my journal: two arms, two legs, and a lot of heart—but always too innocent. I knew I had to hide my imaginary friend away from the world. He was both my best friend and best kept secret.
Clay could recreate anything I wrote in my journal. It was almost like dreaming, but I was always wide awake. This wasn’t just any journal, either; it was the journal my grandfather gave me on my first day of grade primary. He told me that it used to be his, and now that I was starting school, he was passing it along to me. He was a teacher, and a big believer in writing journal entries. He drilled that into me as a kid, said it was important to keep track of ourselves. I got tired of it pretty quickly, and often let my imagination run wild in that thing. There were more drawings than entries, and that’s how Clay came about.
I remember spending a lot of time with Clay in the tree house. Some nights we were accompanied by a summer breeze, other times we were surrounded by the fall’s red leaves. We shared some timeless moments up in that tree house, and there I was wishing those nostalgic moments would last forever. But one thing I have learned is that magic always finds an end. I want to say I grew out of it, but the truth is my mom and I left it behind.
I wasn’t ready, and neither was Clay. I didn’t want to leave Grampy and Nan. My grandfather and I had a unique relationship—he was my first superhero, and the only father figure I ever had. I never met my father, but Grampy was always enough for me. Every Sunday we had our routine: I’d climb in his big red truck on the passenger side. He’d put it in drive, turn to me, and ask: “Are you ready, co-pilot?”
I was sad to leave them behind. Mom told me I couldn’t stay, and I knew I couldn’t bring Clay along with us. What good would it do to bring him to a small city apartment where he couldn’t be seen? He was better off in Yarmouth—a safer place. So I left Clay behind with a promise. I promised him I would return that summer. Mom had said we would, and I looked forward to spending warm summer nights in the tree house with Clay, looking at the galaxy above our heads….
But it turned out that wasn’t a promise I could keep, because we didn’t return. Mom, an artist, kept getting gig after gig after gig. After a while, I assumed Clay had taken the hint and moved on to somewhere else in the world.
I still remember the last day I spoke to him. I told him I was moving away, but he could stay with grandparents as long as they didn’t see him. We had just finished playing hide-and-seek, our favourite game. He cried all afternoon. For ten years, the look on his face has stayed with me. Then Mom and I went off to a place that never quite felt like home.
Yarmouth wasn’t exactly light years away from Halifax, so I don’t know why we never returned—or even visited. Mom didn’t speak about home too often. But there had to be a reason. Most summers Mom claimed to be stacked up with work, and didn’t trust that I was old enough to go alone.
But back to Clay: I guess I always assumed that, with age, he just…went away like other kids’ imaginary friends. I was always told that my imagination would get the better of me, but I thought of Clay as the best part of me. The hardest part of all of this was knowing I didn’t keep my promise.
“Anna,” Mom said, causing me to stir.
I took out my earphones and shook my head. “Yeah, Mom?”
“I know this