Photo by Redd F on Unsplash

By Elias Dimakos

I am from the late nights of watching hockey with my dad while my mom thought I was asleep.

From trying to stay awake while my dad told me about hockey in his time,

and dad telling me “go to sleep at the next whistle”, which never seemed to blow.

From the early mornings, regretting the moment I signed up for “Timbits hockey”,

And the stench of black coffee lingering on my dad’s tongue on the way to the rink,

From smelly under gear that I forgot to wash the night before (even though my mom reminded me),

To my sore legs and sweaty hair plastered to my face on those cold winter mornings.

I am from hockey,

I am from Canada.

I am from my sister and I counting presents the night before,

And waiting anxiously for my siblings and parents to wake up.

From steamy hot chocolate and the warm, cozy fireplace,

To a cold snowy outdoors while my dad awfully videotapes.

From fake smiles, but real laughs,

And morning muffins covered in warm butter.

I am from Christmas.

I am from Canada.

I am from early mornings packing the ski box,

And the blistering cold wrapping around me as I raced down the hill.

From moguls that seemed to call my name,

To hand warmers that always seemed to fail.

From snotty balaclavas stuck to my face,

To chair lift stories and jokes,

And the terrifying double black diamonds.

From cruddy meals in the ski shack,

To car ride naps on the way home.

I am from skiing.

I am from Canada.

I am from freezing hockey rinks, the anticipation of Christmas morning, and snowy ski hills.

I am from all of those happy and fun memories when time seemed to stand still. 

From good times with friends and family,

To sad times when they ended.

I am from Canada.

I am from home.