We were here.

I couldn’t put my sandals back on because they were full of slugs. I had been sitting in the swing down by the lake reading the last of the books I’ve packed, and as I stood up to head back to the cabin when the sun began to slip, I noticed a slimy brown slug had made its way into my right flip flop. Not wanting to displace her, I walked to the cabin barefoot, with the intention of coming back for the sandals later, when the slug had moved along.

But when I came back later, there were three slugs in the right sandal, and one in the left. So I’ve been barefoot ever since.

I remember my roommate, back when I lived somewhere else, in an apartment which had a terrace and big sunny windows, he used to always say, “Mate, please. My duvet,” when I would flop on his bed at the end of the day for a chat. His duvet was white, the soles of my feet were always black. Oh well. I hope I left a dirty footprint on some corner, for him to remember me by. That’s what you have to do, right? Leave your mark? Like those scribbles of spray paint you see under bridges that say “BRAD WAS HERE.” At the maple farm it was the beginnings of a cedar fence we built. Here it was a clay sculpture of a flower I left on a rock by the creek. Or maybe my flip flops down at the beach, if the slugs don’t vacate soon.

A few more days until we’re packing once again. See you later, Quebec.

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