My childhood home was wooden. Oak and maple panelling covered everything: the doors, floors, and cabinets. But I only really noticed it in the bathroom on the main floor. Whenever raised voices echoed throughout the house, I'd go there, pretending to use the washroom. I was too short to reach the sink without a stool, and the panelling would catch my eye as I reached for the faucet. Once the water began to flow, and the noise subsided I'd study them. They were fascinating. I spent hours imagining that the grains, streaks and bizarre patterns within them formed alien landscapes. In my head the oak became oceans, or the next day vast grasslands. New mountain ranges could appear spontaneously from the same panel and I would tell myself stories about the worlds that existed inside each box. I would trace my fingers along them, unable to pull myself away until someone started banging on the door, desperate to use the toilet, and the house was quiet once more.

Calgary story, Calgary author