Page 44 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

You’re part of my tribe.

What more proof does one need that the universe hopes for the best for us?

I’m never reminded of this more than when I walk along the streets of my new homeland on a dreary day. When the clouds part, if only briefly, and the sun shines down on my face, warming my flesh and turning the rain puddles into pools of golden light, I remember it.

Invariably, a person walking by me will slow, turn their gaze to me, smile, and say:

The whole day might not be a waste.

I’ll smile back. We’ll nod. Maybe exchange a few pleasantries. Then we’ll be on our separate ways, wishing each other well. The light and warmth of the sun traveled across our solar system at the speed of light for eight minutes and twenty seconds to produce that one interaction between strangers. In the grand scheme of things—the universe as a whole—the sun is a speck. But its warmth reminds me that the universe hopes for the best for me.

Walking the streets of Minneapolis, like it had been for me in Montreal, is therapeutic. For opposite reasons, of course. Minneapolis is therapeutic in that it helps me to clear my head and gives me time to think about decisions I need to make, solve problems I’ve encountered, or simply work off excess caffeine or sugar. Walking in Montreal was to distract me from my loneliness. So, similar, but different.

When I left La Croûte, my belly full of coffee and almond croissants—I’d ended up eating two—I walked aimlessly at first. The bundle in my arms was cradled against my chest as I strolled along the concrete and metal-lined streets of the city. In the late morning, with the sporadic misty rain, the city almost seemed abandoned. Everyone was staying indoors, avoiding the wet and cold of early spring.

I didn’t mind. I liked having the city to myself as I made my way along the sidewalks. It made it easier to exchange a few kind words with the few strangers I passed on my way. Without the noise of the usual foot traffic or the honking of horns of cars racing here and there, the city felt almost like a village instead of a sprawling hub of industry.

These special moments, when people abandoned the streets due to the weather, allowed me to reintroduce myself to the city—and country—that had done so much for me. Though I had plenty of complaints, for no place is perfect, I owed gratitude to Minneapolis and the United States.

Above all of the things for which I had to be grateful was how it had led me to better understand the concept of family.

Part Two

An Unequitable Marriage

Let Me Come Home

“Okay,” Peter said, “I know it’s not ideal. But we’ll figure it out.”

With my bottom lip firmly stuck out, I crossed my arms over my chest as I rode in the passenger seat of his car. I didn’t want to be difficult or upset on my first official day in my new homeland, but I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t upset, either.

“This is so annoying,” I grumbled.

“It’s just two days, and—”

“Two days without any of my own things!”

Peter suppressed a laugh.

“You’re very feisty today, Mr. Bradshaw,” he teased.

Even though I didn’t want to, I couldn’t help but smile as I rolled my eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Monsieur Barbier,” I snipped, though I couldn’t put any heat behind my words.

Peter laughed loudly as he applied the brakes, bringing us to a full stop in the congested line of traffic on the freeway. We had barely been moving to begin with, but now we had come to a complete stop in the traffic jam we’d found less than a mile from the airport.

“So,” Peter chuckled, “I still haven’t convinced you to take my name?”

“Some other time,” I waved him off. “Let’s focus on important things. Like the fact that I will not have any clean underwear.”

“I’m sorry, Enzo,” he said.

“I sold or threw away everything, Peter,” I said. “Except for my clothes and that one box. It can’t be lost. Those are the only things I have left.”

Peter gave me an empathetic frown and reached over to grab my hand as we sat in the line of traffic, waiting for a chance to creep forward another inch. I stared out at the line of cars spilling out before us, thankful for the heat pouring from the vents. Arriving at the airport in Minneapolis in early autumn reminded me that I was moving to yet another city where the cold would be relentless and brutal nearly year-round.

Two years of waiting for the day to come that I could call America my home had almost made me forget that fact. As I sat in Peter’s car, staring out at the cold, dreary day before us and the string of cars spewing white wisps from their tailpipes, I was quickly reminded. Minneapolis was a city that rarely experienced weather that could be considered hot. Even in the height of summer, it could get warm, but rarely hot. However, I would never again be sleeping alone under all of the blankets I owned in order to stay warm. I would have Peter for that. So, Minneapolis would never seem as cold as Montreal.