Jasmine Vanstone

Scarborough was my second home, my childhood.
I flitted down streets picking berries from trees,
gathering their juices in my pocket seams.
My little legs led me to parks and places
where my curiosity ran ahead, unbound,
skipping across concrete, rolling down hills, carving shortcuts in the grass.

I didn’t know what limitations felt like 
because I was surrounded by family reunions in third spaces
making heartwarming memories.

Desire lines beneath my feet—
unspoken maps drawn by the rhythm of loved ones who settled before me.
I followed them inside Big Al’s,
where tanks of shifting blues held tiny universes,
through Scarden Park’s open fields,
where friendships sprouted like wildflowers.
At my mulberry sidewalk, my footprints trailed behind me,
to say I was here before.

Scarborough is not just streets and storefronts,
not just high-rises and winding roads—
it is movement, it is gathering, it is my childhood home.
It is the echoes of basketballs on pavement,
the highway homing beacon of church,
the taste of a family BBQ, seasoned by generations.
It is the resilience of a community that speaks
in many tongues, yet hums the same familiar tune.

I observe these places as they shift,
as new roots settle and old ones fade.
I witness the quiet transformations:
a corner store replaced, a mural erased,
a gathering spot abandoned,
but the spirit of it lingers, like an imprint in the earth.

What will remain?
What do we carry forward?
What paths do we continue to carve?

Scarborough, I see you.

The echoes of our laughter, the roots of our stories.
I walk your lines, tracing the past,
Reminiscing in the present, imagining the future.