Rhymes With Orange

prologue

"It's okay is a cosmic truth."

-Richard Bach

I bleed history.

My grandparents, Hiltrude and Ambros Nacht survived the Holocaust, my grandmother thirteen and with no family and my grandfather eighteen, with nothing left but a dying sister, before marrying in 1955 and immigrating to Canada in 1957, my grandmother already swollen with my father.

My ancestors, the Delacroix, have been here since 1604, and lived in Montreal Quebec, for nearly four hundred years before my mother picked up, with her new found husband and moved to Toronto.

So, naturally, you'd expect me and my family to be these amazing, dramtic and emotional people. Well, allow me to kill that notion instantly.

My mother works at some office. My father works at another office. They come home in beige clothes and beige faces, late at night, where the dinner I've made is sitting on a plate, cold. They leave in the morning, when I'm eating breakfast.

I love my parents. I really, really do. I love my dad's hugs and my mom's clucking when I'm sick. But I just wish I knew them.