In his book, You Were Here, André Narbonne deftly tracks his past. His memory process is reliable without being overly, and boringly, explanatory. It skilfully cuts around, rather than trudges through, images and events from his former years spent in Southwestern Ontario. At times, Narbonne recounts in indefinite terms. He recalls holding an older sister’s hand and receiving vague advice from his father who urges him to remember plain “sounds” like, perhaps, the songs he and his sister left “on the road behind.” It’s on this road, which begins during the first poem, “Our Tintern,” that Narbonne nimbly passes through memories of his childhood and adulthood, avoiding temptations to poke and prod along the way.