My visit home ends the way they always end: with me, my mother and my father standing together in the dark next to a pair of train tracks. All three of us are staring West, into the distance, looking for train number 64. The train is known as the Maple Leaf–the words “MAPLE LEAF” are printed on my ticket–because it runs between Canada and New York. The late December wind is shrill. The three of us shift from foot to foot to keep warm. “What time do you get into the city?” my dad asks, blowing into his hands. (more…)