In the children’s book Everything on a Waffle, Primrose Squarp’s parents disappear one night at sea during a storm that hits Coal Harbour. Convinced they are still alive, she spends her days waiting for them to return. Suspended in her state of waiting, she says, “I am not in the body of life. I hover on the extremities. I float.”
In the past eight months, many have felt as if they are hovering on the outside of what they once knew, reflecting on that which used to feel familiar. As of late, we carry on in our waiting in order to imagine a world where our loved ones can come home and sit at the table. We imagine a world where we don’t have to speak to one another through a window and interpret nuances solely through the look in someone’s eyes. Sometimes, envisioning this world is an act of hope in and of itself. Sometimes, feeling stuck comes in the simplest of forms: another virtual work meeting, watching your thirteen-year-old selectively decide to remain anonymous during history class, or canceling plans for Thanksgiving.
The poems and essays in this issue capture the isolation, loneliness, and fear that make up our measured, unforeseen rituals. They capture the way we now look back on every minute, month, and year of our lives, and for a brief moment wonder if that is the best proof we have of what was. They capture our imaginations, and a time period yet to be named. They give us permission to exist in our own spaces. They allow us to float.
We hope you find as much to be valued and discovered in them as we have. We are thrilled to share them with you.
With warmth,
Jesse Ewing-Frable & Hannah Newman
Sweet Tree Review