I HATE MY VILLAGE FULL

We can also disconnect the land line IвЂ™ll use LitiaвЂ™s cellphone to make my fortnightly call home to Calgary. I got a whole $23 dollars for it.Д«y the time I get to my bus stop, IвЂ™ve settled on cutting out grapefruit, coffee cream, and Halloween candy. I feigned ignorance and then inconspicuously checked our Kijiji account to make sure IвЂ™d deleted the ad. вЂњWhereвЂ™d that striped top go?вЂ‰вЂќ she asked once. My wife doesnвЂ™t realize that IвЂ™ve been selling articles of her clothing for the past three years. And I try not to make eye contact with our dog, Maisy, while I sneak dried rice into her kibble. IвЂ™ve rescued all of our plates from alleyways our cutlery comes from the spillover sections of Salvation Army drop boxes. I like to think of our one-bedroom, 396-square-foot basement apartment as a museum exhibit on the lengths my generation has to go in order to stay debt free. Here, of course, I use the word our in its most liberal sense, since Litia is the only one who receives a salary. As I ride the bus, I mentally scroll through the Rolodex of things Litia and I can cut in order to bank even more of our paycheque. From our apartment, it is a forty-five-minute bus ride to Christmas Traditions, the nearest pop-up holiday shop. M y wife, Litia, and I live in Vancouver.

I HATE MY VILLAGE FULL

And I am filled so full with wanting it is all I know. Then, aiming the metal prongs of the master plug at the socket, I take a deep breath and look at my dark city. Once the buildings are in place and the villagers are snug in their beds, I link my eighteen adapters into one long chain of industrial power strips. In fact, I am so intoxicated with it, I hardly notice that when it turns on, it emits a faint but constant squeal. It is, by far, my most commented-on piece. The moon is the first piece I bought for myself I wanted to give my village a certain gravitas, and it did just that. Rising behind that is a full moon, upheld by an adjustable stand. Rising behind the department store is a modest hill. And sitting in its display window-brace yourself-is a miniature miniature Christmas village. At the far end of the village is my department store. Next is my fire hall, my school, and my post office: public monies at work. But I knew exactly what I was getting myself into. My parents were hesitant to buy it for me, thinking I didnвЂ™t understand what I was asking for. It was my first piece I was in grade nine, and it was a gift from my mother. When I unpack my restaurant, I am awash with nostalgia. Then thereвЂ™s my theatre, my hotel, my millinery. Sovereignty Street is bustling with shoppers. First comes my gift shop and then my bank, both of which boast extended weekend hours. Once youвЂ™re downtown, the street lights will guide you. To cross, you have two choices: the Voltaire Viaduct, stony and austere or the Pont de la Paix, wooden and ornate and fragile. To make your way downtown, youвЂ™ll have to traverse the Kemick Canal, its crinolined torrents now fully frozen. Then there is my public park, which includes a hockey rink and two-dozen towering conifers. I move west to east, starting with my six houses, the bourgeois ones placed closer to my church. Once all the boxes have emerged from their summer hibernation, I begin. My mother has already resigned herself to hosting next weekвЂ™s dinner party for twelve around the kitchen counter. So now I am back in Calgary, hauling an unending line of boxes out from my parentsвЂ™ basement and into their dining room. I moved out of my parentsвЂ™ house at seventeen, but my heart has never left-not out of some romantic notion of remembering my roots, but because the idea of renting an apartment with enough room to store my Christmas village borders on lunacy.

I hate my village