Beyond a Home

Sadly I’m piling in my last load of laundry. Here. For now.

The Fisherman have their own storage lockers. I walk by. Nets scattered. Floats worn.

I wonder what it used to be like. Years ago when my grandfather fished. Before the endless red tape. Regulations tangled in the nets of the diminishing fish quotas.

I’m temporary. I knew when I came. But I’m sad to leave. Even though it’s only been 19 days.

It’s safe. I smile to each of the Security Guards as I roll home from school. The fellow tonight reminded me where the light switch was for the laundry room. I’d been the one that turned it off.
He didn’t know.

The Fisherman’s Wharf at False Creek is clean. The washrooms and showers maintained. Fresh. 

Beyond a home.