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I have flown to France searching for roots of language and family to compose a history I have become an immigrant. The wind is rising tonight I hear it in the trees their leaves thrown to the ground the air is salty. I remember Memere's story and see her face through the window of my farmhouse in Normandy. Here comes another gust. My modder and fadder left Quebec when I was very young On de homestead in Manitoba, dey had to clear away bush before dey could plant anyting. The air this fall is warm and turbulent. It sweeps harvested fields but doesn't raise any dust from this land thick and red with clay. Dey arrived early in de summer. It was hot, but de mosquitos were de worse of all. During the last storm so many apple trees blew over, their shallow roots unable to hold them. Cows cleared the fallen fruit. After everyting was cut, my fadder would tie tow horses to a stump. While dey were pulling, he and older men would chop at de stump wit axes till it come loose. And the road was covered in chestnuts. We filled a pail, then sorted and slit them, ready for roasting. We did so much picking - wild plums, blueberries, raspberries, chokecherries and we had a big garden too. Everybody has to help wit de cleaning and canning. The clouds are low when they roll off the sea they make the sky look like it's ready to fall. I can't read them yet, I only know rain comes from the west. My fadder built de small house first, it's de one dat's filled wit grain now. And de first shed is de one where is now stored de boat. Wind whips across the slate rock roof in waves, thin tiles clatter like hundreds of old bones.

Cécile Guillemot
Winnipeg, Manitoba