I have a huge crush on this book. I think I might be in love. I think about it all the time. I put it down in my favourite spot so my hands can find it in the mornings. The firs and cedars read over my shoulder, whisper the words back and forth to each other all day.
I am jealous of Canada’s governor general — I would like to give this book my award. I am jealous of anybody who reads it. But anxious, too, for everybody to read it. Just as long as they understand, as the forest does, that Lake of Two Mountains is Mine.
Something cracks. Sadness or love. If only this book would love me back. If it would even glance at me, I would blush, tongue-tie something stupid.