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Sometimes when you deliberately try not to think about something, that thought can take on a tangible form. A physical manifestation of the repressed thought will try to push its way into this world.

Nasty notes bloom on winter windshields. A cop kneels down to sift through a nest of needles.

So what else is Montréal trying hard not to think about?

Me, evidently.

The first thing Robin ever gave me was a hand-drawn invitation to a Groundhog Day party. I still have it. I keep it with a bunch of other such items in a drawer back at the house in Gaspereau Forks.

There are photographs and artwork. Little notes. A few articles of clothing. A scarf that retains the trace of her scent, even after almost four years.

It’s usually the sign of a pretty dark night in the country if I find myself sliding open that drawer.

Last week when I moved to Montreal I left the contents of the drawer behind. Now I wish I had brought that invitation with me, I wish I could hold it in my hand.

I think back to the night she doodled it up. We were sitting at the bar at the Khyber Club.

I remember her phone number (431-LOOP), the illustration of little cartoon characters, and her charming handwriting with its mixture of capital letters and lowercase e’s.