When I splashed boiling cooking oil on my fingers more than 3 years ago, when we lived in Iqaluit, I had no idea my scar would become a Harry Potter-like indicator. Though I’m not sure what it is telling me. Surely, there isn’t a cooking oil trying to kill me.
Over the years the scar has faded, and I’ve forgotten about the experience. Yesterday I was telling a friend that I miss Iqaluit. In the process of reviving this blog, I started reading my old favourite Iqaluit blogs, and my feelings about that place became quite intense. I loved the simplicity of life there, the landscapes, the pristine whiteness and the cold. I loved living at the edge of the tundra. I would want to live there again, but it is an irrational and impractical longing. My kids are older, they wouldn’t want to leave their friends, their favourite art class, the wonderful library system, the museums…They miss Iqaluit too, but I think they mostly miss our house and their friends, but the friends are no longer there.
As I was talking about Iqaluit, I glanced at my hands, and noticed the scar growing redder and redder. The skin started to itch. After about half an hour, the scar was back to its invisible self.
I’m notoriously bad at googling for obscure phenomena. Anyone has an explanation?