if you didn’t push me, if you hadn’t cared, how would I have ever dared? When you live far away from "home", i.e. the city you grew up in, every return visit becomes a type of mission consisting of several objectives: see people you haven't seen in a while, do the things you can only do at home, visit the places you are most fond of. So for me, some of the items that complete my ideal Moncton trip include a trip to Deluxe fish 'n chips or Pizza Delight, a glimpse of the ocean and/or beach, time spent with family, and usually a drive around the city visiting old homes or hangouts.

I did most of those things this past weekend. The weather wasn't great but I visited the wharf at Pointe du Chene and meditated on the ocean for a while, stood on the wet sand at Parlee Beach and gazed into the gentle waves, ordered some garlic cheese fingers with donair sauce from Pizza Delight, drove slowly by the old house on Cameron Street, visited an old friend from junior high school, had a pint at the St. James Gate, and had relaxing visits with many family members.

I visited with both of my elderly grandmothers, too. They are 89 and 87 years old and although both have been generally healthy during their lives, it seems you get to an age where your body starts breaking down in unanticipated ways. My father's mother has developed "pulmonary fibrosis", so her heart and lungs are both under duress. My father said that my grandmother goes to bed at night with her apartment door unlocked. It is so that her neighbour can check on her in the morning if she doesn't make an appearance. On the other end of things, my mother's mother is having more difficulty with her memory, and that spins into panic-type attacks that feel like heart problems to her. There isn't a clear diagnosis, and her mind is definitely ebbing in and out of perfect awareness, but she's still mostly healthy, all things considered.

These visits made me think a lot about family and about the "circle of life" (yes, I know that sounds so gay). Aging can be sad and scary, and watching it happen to the people in your family can remind you just how short life is.

Seeing my grown cousins this weekend made me remember babysitting for them. I was still young (around 10) when Ryan was born, so it was more assisting my mother with caring for him when he came to stay, but I remember it vividly, because it was my first exposure to a baby who could not be comforted, and his crying broke my heart, even at that age. He would only stop if you walked with him, and I would have paced all night with him in my arms. But Mom knew, after five babies of her own, that sometimes a baby will just wear himself out and fall asleep. I hated that; I wanted to stop his crying. He sat across the poker table from me this weekend, all 23 years old and responsible and adult-ish, and that's what I remembered. Not even a memory for him, but for me, an instant in time that marked me.

In my head, that's what family is for: to care for you through their loving acts, so that, no matter how many wrong turns you make, or decisions that take you away from them, no matter what fortune or misfortune befalls you, even if they hurt you or you hurt them, no matter that you sometimes forget to call, you know deep inside you'll always have a place to go "home" to, and the people will be waiting. You can see some of my people here.  | ¶ 9:45 p.m.