Page 89 of Hometown Heart

He nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Just thinking about the first time I read here. How terrified I was to step out from behind my counter."

"And now?" I prompted.

"Now I'm watching Cody prepare to do the same."

Rory returned to the microphone. "Next up, we have a young man making his festival debut. Many of you know him as the forward who scored the championship-winning goal this season, but tonight he's sharing another talent with us. Please welcome Cody St. Pierre."

"Hi, everyone," he began, his voice steadier than I'd expected. "This is my first time reading at the festival, so... thanks for listening." He unfolded his paper, smoothing it carefully before continuing. "This poem is calledWhistleport Winter to Summer.I wrote it about our first year here."

The crowd settled into attentive silence. Cody took a deep breath and began to read.

We arrived in winter—strangers wrapped in city coats too thin for Maine,

wheels crunching on frozen gravel,

boxes packed with memories we weren't sure would fit.

The harbor lay silent under ice,

a playground we didn't know was waiting.

On frozen water, I found my place—

blades cutting stories into temporary surfaces,

teammates who didn't know me before,

only my now, my next goal, my growing strength.

Dad's eyes softened, watching from the stands,

worry lines replaced by smile creases.

Each cup of coffee stretched longer,

conversations deeper than the harbor.

We learned Whistleport's secret language:

how nods replace paragraphs,

how gossip travels faster than text messages,

how names become invitations.

The ice began to crack in March,

revealing currents underneath—

not dangerous, but alive,moving us toward something unexpected.

Dad laughed easier, stayed later at Tidal Grounds.

Three became family without announcement—

casual touches, shared glances, borrowed sweaters.

Papa visited, bringing pieces of before,

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