I’ve always saved special little things for her letters, things that have no place in my letters to my father, or to my military superiors, who wanted to hear tactics, strength, evidence of stern competence and a will to succeed. Never mind that the profession of war demands finesse: it demands time—every day precious—studying our own tactics and those of the French with their precision and grace. Being mentored by my elders, learning the language of my future enemy—did my superiors have no idea what happens to an English soldier in the dark, on the banks of the Saint Lawrence River, who cannot deceive the shadows with his tongue? And my fencing lessons! As with my prowess in riding a horse in Paris I found I somehow, naturally, knew how to fence: with my long arms and longer legs, I had the most extensive lunge of any student my teachers had known. A bayonet became a different instrument once the French taught me how to regard a blade. Yet still I needed more time than I had. One doesn’t capitalize on natural talents without practice.

My Parisian studies prepared me for battle but they also nourished my soul—without them, dear mother, I wither. I withered when they were snatched in my youth and because of their absence I rot to this day in that blind, sere land I inhabit between Septembers.

Dear Madam,

So help me if I don’t claim the fruits of my stolen fortnight this year I’ll hurl myself in the Spout, the chasm of sluicing

No. A mother can stand to hear a little of her son’s anguish, but not too much. I have to continue reminding her of noble things, such as how I spared women and children in battle, or how, despite falling ill and succumbing to despair, I have come back to myself and will, as ever, remain her loyal, obedient son. Then there are the funny little bits, the cryptic parts. I add things no one but my mother would understand, to make the story only we two share.

Our letters electrified one another with that feather whose touch astounds: each jolt intimate, particular, and ours alone, even the fragmentary installments of our never-ending quarrel.

And so, each September I still write letters to my mother and I mail them, as I did in her lifetime, but of course not to Blackheath and not by ship. Sophie torments me about dropping them in the red Canada Post mailbox.

“Nobody does that anymore,” she says. “Even my grandma on Grand-Entrée Island uses email.”

SEPTEMBER 4TH, 2017, MONTRÉAL

Dear Madam,

In Montreal I have found a place a little like the sanctuary we so much used to enjoy at the Bath…

What I’ve found is, in fact, the Chinatown YMCA.