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The night held onto a softness that gently pressed itself into the metal of the moving car. For great stretches we had the only vehicle on the highway. Jack Pine and Balsam fir lined both sides of the road, their dark green needles beneath a layer of white. This white that kept coming, spiraling down from the sky to drift and blow over the lone highway, glistening in the head lights, being pushed away by wipers, leaving great patches of winter everywhere. I love this stretch of road. It is the road to Kouchibouguac and its great length of sandy ocean beach, and white pine trails. It is the road to Bouctouche with its sand dunes and long neck herons, it is the road home. My brother- in –law drove and my third oldest brother sat in the front seat passenger side. I sat in the back with my oldest brother. The one I met up with at the airport in Toronto. The road was icy and visibility was poor but the darkness and the snow and the stretch of highway in front and being in the car with family had this tremendous peaceful quality about it and I hung onto it like a glass vase.

Growing up I idealized my brothers but ball-playing brothers never had much time for younger sisters. I took on a lot of their characteristics anyway. I fought to have their quiet, stoic strength and in the car I knew we shared that. We talked mainly about the past but I have never felt more in the present, in the moment. We all wanted a coffee, especially my oldest brother but it was only a tree-lined highway for the time being. I listened to my brothers as they brought up childhood friends they shared and what some of them were up to now. They talked of old stories of our youth. Stories that always held the quality and characters of a Dicken's novel. And we talked of our sister.

We pulled into Bouctouche to the Tim Horton’s but it was closed, so we ended up in an Irving Station pouring ourselves hugh coffees from the dispenser while the friendly owner chatted to us and this long day finally fell into another.

By the time we arrived home it was nearing one-thirty. I stayed the first night at my brothers and his girl friend/partner’s place. I was exhausted but I couldn’t sleep. The following morning everyone gathered at my Dad’s. It was a sad reunion but I was so grateful to be amongst them again. Cousins and neices and nephews and aunts and uncles and friends and neighbours kept dropping in with food and warm sentiments. Again we talked endlessly about her, about her great ability to laugh at any situation she found herself in, about her wonderful way with children and her stubborn streak. My family always had this gift of finding humor in the most unlikely situations and we used this humor in great abundance that day and the days that followed.

At the wake we all looked a bit like deer in a deer field – vulnerable and timid. We joked about the bad tasting coffee and the possibility that it held embalming fluid and were all truly amazed at the volume of people who walked down the line of us, shaking our hands, offering their condolences. My brother who I was standing next too, kept joking with me or asking me “who is this one coming, she/he looks familiar, I should know him, right?” And most of the time I shrugged my shoulders because although I recognized faces, I was always lost when it came to names and being away so long made this even more difficult but still I knew many.


I didn’t cry at the funeral until my younger sister (by one year) read the speech she prepared. She is a wonderful speaker and a true writer and she captured the spirit of our sister in her words. My sister’s twin also wrote a speech but did not want to read it. Instead she gave us all a copy of her words, which I placed in my journal as soon as I arrived home.

After the funeral we went back to Dad’s and watched old home movies. It felt fitting because most of it was of Christmas (1974) and my sister and my mother were alive and well on the screen.

I changed my flight that went into Toronto for the flight my brother was on, which landed in Hamilton and then went on to Calgary. It was hard saying good-bye to everyone that last day. I am not sure if I truly said good-bye to my sister yet. I tried but for some reason it didn’t feel heart felt, like I meant it. I think I need a summer day, a stretch of space and a field full of wild grass to make it seem real. The last family member I said good-bye too was my oldest brother. We parted in Hamilton. One of the last things he had asked was “Do you ever regret moving away?”

And I answered. “Sometimes.”

He said he felt the same way. He works in construction and once, after working a few years out there, he asked some Newfoundlanders, who had been living out west for much longer than that. “ Does it ever get to feel like home out here?” and they laughed and said “never.”

I caught the Go Bus to Toronto. As I was getting on dragging my suitcase behind me, there was a man who didn’t have the right ticket to get him back to Toronto and he was pleading his case, explaining to the driver how he thought he had paid for a two way trip and how important it was for him to get home. I had to agree with him. It is important to get home so after I pulled my suitcase onto one of the seats, I fished around in my pocket for his fare but than I heard the bus driver tell him that it was O.K. and for him to find a seat. And I was happy for the dark interior of the bus as we pulled away because this kind gesture from the bus driver had me tearing up again.

Out side of Union station I stood and looked around for the girls and Greg but couldn’t spot the car. Snow was falling. It was getting cold. Taxis were lined up all down front street calling for fares, the exhaust and the snow intermingling. The city once again big and overwhelming and I thought of what my brother said about regret. Greg and the girls surprised me by coming up behind. And when I turned around, it was the smiles on their red-cheeked faces that told me I didn't have any.

posted by mary j. @ 8:41 AM