You told me once, that memory stored in the back was like carrying stones. We had such similar memories, we had such similar collections of stones. Little pieces of Evangeline Beach and Cape Blomidon and Amethyst Cove piled up in our apartments, piled up thick and dense like lots of knots in our necks and backs. Who will rub your neck for you in Vancouver like the way I did when you had tendentious? Who is left in Montréal to crack my spine the way you used to, the way you used to walk up and down my back like it was memory lane, letting the hard pebbles of my memory bruise your feet....