On our last day together, my mom and I went to a small municipal beach in Chestermere, Alberta. We set up lawn chairs on the grass and moved with the shade. The breeze felt like silk in that hot and dry part of the country.
Sitting and watching the people—families and goofy kids bubbling over about the sand and water.
It was the best day.
We talked about what needs talking about on this trip. I could imagine her with spunk and spirit as she told me stories of being young.
I made two recordings. During one, we laugh so hard we can hardly breathe.
She, too, was fatherless—her mother’s story the same as Theo’s. Both my grandmother’s caught in an impossible spot.
Over a little fun.
Talking like this took time and effort for my mom and me.
It was not a walk in the park. We can still disagree.
I said goodbye to her and my brother when I was 17. They went out west, and I stayed put for my last year of high school—lived with friends.
The pain of standing on the platform at Union Station and waving goodbye to their train.
I glued me back together.
Good things happened. Almost straight out of high school, I did Katimavik—a life-affirming experience.
At 58 years old, I am my home. My mom’s home is in Strathmore.
We don’t take being together for granted.
She was in the passenger seat for all my sunset videos. Barbara Streisand is one of her favourites.