There’s a park in Victoria, my Canada home, called Beacon Hill. It’s huge and beautiful. Weeping willows and cherry blossoms and peacocks and families of fat ducks floating on ponds. Baby goats in a petting zoo. Stone bridges crossing water. Miles of grass. My mom took my brother and I there to feed the ducks when we were kids, breaking off crumbs from old loaves of bread she saved for the outings in our freezer. I know, you’re not supposed to feed animals in parks, but it was common then (I think?), and my mom loved to toss the crumbs on the ground and let the ducks swarm the feast at our feet, listening to their quacks and the west-coast wind that gusted off the Pacific at the edge of the park. Those days were shortly after we moved to Victoria from Saskatoon, to be closer to the ocean, my mom said, and the artists there.