Cathy’s Celebration of Life

Patrick

If my mother — Cathy's aunty Agnes — were still alive and asked to speak instead of me, her son, I don't believe she'd begin by saying: Cathy was my favorite in the whole family. But she did say that.

No, my mother would say:

My father — who pioneered the Peace Country, who walked over the Edson Trail in 1910 before roads or rail, who lived in a wooden wagon a year over the winter on his land to claim it — had many children and grandchildren, but very few heirs. Heirs of his particular kind of love and generosity. Heirs of his spirit and character, of his remarkable creativity and artistic talent. But little Cathy — as my mother would refer to Cathy — now Cathy was a true heir of her grandfather.

Cathy inherited our grandfather's special love of our greater family. In the 60s through the 80s, when the families would gather at the Farm, Cathy was always that cousin that made the younger ones feel not just loved but cherished.

One 90s reunion, Cathy organized a huge trivia contest where we all had to guess Alberta heritage and place names. Cathy got us all on teams, talking with one another. It was the first time we'd ever done anything like that at a family reunion, and she created a bit of a tradition. And how about the reunions in the 2000s — how Cathy and Spike organized the elaborate meals for over 150 of us, for three days? It would take Cathy's character — a perfectionist and organizer par excellence — to rise to that challenge, to make it look easy and pull it off flawlessly. But being a perfectionist and a superb organizer, she could be that. There's even a word for it — I can hear my mother saying — Swiss.

And like our Swiss grandfather, Cathy was endlessly generous. Cathy felt no greater happiness than to share her table with food and wine, with family and company. We sang it at our grandfather's funeral 51 years ago; we could have repeated it just as fittingly today. If our grandfather — who would be so proud of Cathy — had had a chance to eat at her table, to eat her bread and drink her wine, he'd experience not only her profound generosity, like him — he'd observe her beautifully appointed home, the many objects of art she made, and how similar she was to him in terms of her love of art and beauty.

As Chris and Laura tell us, Cathy's diagnosis never deterred Cathy from being creative and making art. As her health declined, she embraced it even more. Drew sustenance from it. And as our grandfather did, dealing with loss, she found light in darkness in it.

My 15-year-old mother observed her father in the fall of 1939 paint a border around the upper walls of his bedroom — the bedroom in which his 36-year-old wife, Mary Catherine, had succumbed to breast cancer, leaving six children. The green fronds he painted, the purple bunches of grapes, the red fleur-de-lis at the center of the repeating frame after frame after frame encircling the room, tell a story. Not of his wine-growing family, or his French-Swiss origins. Not a story of the past, but one of the future.

My mother said returning to his art was a way of her father moving through the grief of losing her mother, his wife. Most certainly that was true. But it was more than that. It was our grandfather restoring light to darkness, creating art to soothe pain with beauty, and preparing a new life for a new wife — Alice Sutherland, mother of yet five more children, the grandmother that we knew and loved. Our grandfather's art, like Cathy's, was an affirmation of life — that border a representation of the circular continuity of our life.

"There is no art where there is nothing to overcome," wrote Albert Camus. And so too, to overcome the darkness: in these last years Cathy embraced her creativity, as our grandfather once did — by making beauty necessary, by making necessity beautiful.

I began by saying what I believe my mother would say about little Cathy, heir to our grandfather. Let me close now with what I believe our grandfather would say to Cathy.

Cousins here today — remember when night fell at the farm on a Sunday, after the days-long visit, when it was time to return home? Before our dads turned the car out of the farmyard and headed down the gravel road to the Emerson Trail, with only the headlights coming through the vast darkness beneath a bejewelled heaven? Remember how gramma and grandpa would accompany us to the car — how grandpa would lean into the open car window and look at our mom and dad, and at his grandchildren, sleepy little lions in the back seat? And before our final goodbyes, remember what he'd say? He'd gently smile, and say to us then the same thing he'd say to Cathy now:

You're another Star in the sky.

Tom

Thank you for coming today to celebrate Cathrine's life. It's an honor to speak to you all about probably a unique relationship that we had with Cathrine — being her brothers. As was mentioned, Cathrine was born January 17, 1955. I looked it up today — it was 32 degrees below zero. Fascinating.

When I thought about preparing for this… this speech, I guess — it occurred to me that Cathy, more than any of my brothers, knew exactly who she was at a very early age. My earliest memories of Cathy were Dawson Creek. I would have been three or four. As you can imagine, it was an extremely hectic household — the boys, Dad on the road a lot, Mom working. And Cathy — Cathy was a big sister to all of us, the older, the younger. Cathy was always there. I often wondered how she found herself in a room full of hunters and boys and Tonka trucks — the masculine energy around the house must have been quite thick. But she did. She also had an excellent role model in my beautiful mother, Wilma.

Gary remembers Cathy with love and respect — proud of who Cathy was, who she became, and what she accomplished.

Cathy and David were less than a year apart, which in itself is hard to imagine. They had a very close and special relationship all those years. Dave remembers her kindness, her energy, her wry sense of humor. Even then she had a zest for life, and David said they were many times co-conspirators and got into mischief. When I questioned, he wouldn't have told me anything. But I can just imagine.

Jean and Cathy were super close as well, both sharing the Lozeron pride and honesty. I don't know of anyone who cares more and loves more than Jean. Cathy was a rock for Jean, and Jean for Cathy — always there when we needed each other, always supportive. This was a two-way street for the two of them. Cathy loved and respected Jean.

I remember one— you know, gosh, honestly, I couldn't remember anything from back in those days. I was just like… Then I remembered, and the memories started to sort of roll in. Blessings to Laura and Chris for bringing me back. I had 17 pages.

The kids in the neighborhood of Dawson Creek were pretty vicious, I recall. It was kind of a one-horse town back then. The kids were vicious. And Cathy — I don't know if anybody else knows this, but Cathy had a vision problem in one of her eyes. So when she walked, she turned her head like this. We didn't know why. We thought it was just Cathy. We didn't ask any questions. And the kids were teasing her. And I remember one day — I don't know how it transpired, but we all gathered around Cathy. She was skipping — she loved to skip — and going like this, just waiting for someone to tease her. Just waiting for it. And Cathy — it's the first time I recognized her little nose up in the air, and that look she'd give people. And I was like: this girl has confidence. This girl knows who she is. And I saw that look for years and years and years. Whenever something rubbed Cathy the wrong way, she often didn't say anything, because she didn't have to.

Cathy was never one to take any crap, I will say that. But she did not put up with nonsense from others, and she was so proud and brave, even as a child. She had a strong sense of self, and she carried that all the way through. Did I mention Cathy was brave and unyielding?

I remember as a little boy being victims of Cathy's tea parties, because she just loved to entertain from the time she could pull together a tea party. David, Bobby and I sitting there, eating our imaginary cakes.

Bobby actually has some interesting memories of Cath later on in life, back when we moved down to Edmonton. Bobby was the baby in the family and didn't get much attention. Also, his birthday was in December, so there was no time for Bob's birthday. One occasion, Cathy planned a birthday for Bob — I remember. Made a cake, decorated the whole house, made invitations, invited everybody — made Bobby feel like the only boy in the whole world. That's how Cathy was.

It was Cathy's special talent: she could make you feel so loved and supported, with very few words. She just had a way about it. Cathy never really asked back. All she required from anybody that she was close to was their honesty. No fanfare, no thanks needed. That's just who she was. She just loved to give. She loved to love.

I'm sorry — I'm going on a bit. But I remember Cathy as a beautiful young teen in Edmonton, when we moved there in the 60s. You know, she had her room all painted up like a hippie, and she had her door locked — and we never went in her room. It was completely awkward. But she moved out young, because she was a very independent young lady. She got a job. She flourished. One day — I remember, I think it was Jackie and her, conspiring about this guy, Bob Stewart. And the next thing you know, Bob Stewart and Cathy were an item, and they went on to have two beautiful children, Chris and Laura. She was a superb mother. My mom was so proud — she was so proud. Cathy throwing family parties and events, crafts, making clothes for the kids — she was just a really great mom. I think you would have to agree.

I remember the day that we were at Mom's for Christmas, and Cathy was bringing a new man around, and we were like… "Spike"? Honestly, I just couldn't imagine what to think. I couldn't even imagine that. We were all just ready to not like him. And he came out of the car — it was minus 30 or minus 35 — he had on flip-flops and shorts — I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. Immediately we knew Spike was a special being. He was — we knew immediately we'd be friends for life. And we are, and were — and we'll always think fondly of Spike. Fantastic man. But Cathy — I don't know why we doubted her. She did what she wanted, and she knew what she needed.

Fortunately for us all, Cathy has passed her legacy on to her two beautiful, responsible, fantastic children, that I love so much. We'll all miss Cathy — we'll all miss Cathy beyond words. Her home was like an enclave of warmth, acceptance, and most of all, fun. It was an honor to be her brother — we all feel that way. I know myself and my brothers will carry Cathrine Ann's memory with pride, and we will strive to live to her example. Cathy, thank you for being you.

Theresa

I'm so honored to be able to speak about my Cath. So I'll do my best to be enlightening and entertaining.

My name is Theresa, and Cath was my dearest friend. I met Cathy 26 years ago. I moved back to Edmonton as a young widow with two little boys, and I needed to work. So in September 2000 I started a job at Blu's at Southgate, and that is where I met Cathy. I saw this confident, attractive, well-dressed woman in her 40s, and I thought: damn… I want to be her. As the staff meeting started, we all took a turn introducing ourselves — I sat across from Cath. As we spoke, I felt her warmth and compassion. After we chatted, I knew she was going to be my work bestie. This feisty, smart woman became my mentor, my confidante — my incredible friend who always had my back.

Funny story — I think I told you guys this story at the hospice. One time our very pretentious boss — no names — wanted to give me a pair of pantyhose. You know, gifts for the single broke mom — given in front of all the staff. Cathy immediately stepped in and said, "she doesn't need charity," and proceeded to school our boss. In the meantime I'm thinking: I could really use those pantyhose! That was my Cathy.

It was shortly after that that I met Spike. Lovable, wonderful Spike. This couple — so generous and kind, and they loved each other fiercely. I've never in my life witnessed a man take such good care of his wife. So much love and respect for each other. I know all of us can learn from that level of commitment.

If there was one word to describe my beautiful friend, it was Warrior. And the Google definition: someone who shows great courage, strength, and determination in a difficult struggle. I think that's pretty accurate. This woman fought long and hard and kept getting back up — again, and again — and with a positive attitude. This baffled me at times. How could someone in so much pain show so much humor and gratitude and grace? Still needing to bake you a muffin, and make sure you're fed, while asking you with pure sincerity: "how are you doing?"

Private and independent — sometimes for me it was a balance of respecting that privacy, but at the same time pushing myself into her presence, even when she seemed to not want you there. Then I remember Spike's comment to me many years ago: "You know, you're Cathy's best friend. Don't give up on her." I now know what he meant by that.

Her taking offers of help was tricky. She was pretty stubborn. You had to say things like "we're coming over Sunday at 1 to move furniture," instead of "what can we do for you?", right? You just show up, as she always did.

She was a brilliant listener — like, really engaged. A talent she happily perfected, because she really didn't like talking about herself.

Although she didn't see my sons Ryan and Jonah very much over the last few years, she would ask about them, and shower such genuine concern and love for them. She had this big, beautiful wood desk in the office downstairs — in her office, I guess that was her office — and she kept their grade one and four school pictures attached to the drawers — these little tiny pictures — for, like, 25 years, I swear. It was a little thing that always struck me as symbolic and absolutely precious.

Cath and I shared some sweet time over the last few months. We talked about faith, and her two favorite things — Chris and Laura — and that she was ready to go see her Spike.

Rest in peace, my beautiful friend. My warrior. We love you so much.

Mark

Hi — thanks for being here today. My name's Mark Janveaux — longtime friends of the family. This is, of course, Ryan Ramsdell. And I just want to share a few words.

There's a core group of men here today who have known each other for a very long time — going on anywhere from 34 to 40 years. We share our lives with each other, helping one another, building memories and bonds that continue through to this very moment. And in this moment, I don't think any of us really feels like men. We're that same group of boys, struggling to deal with the loss of someone who, to all of us, was a second mom.

I won't inundate you with all the personal stories, but I want to emphasize how much of an impact Cathy had on us, shaping who we are today. Growing up, and even in adulthood, Cathy's house was always the safe place — filled with wonderful people who cared about us. Cathy had an open-door policy — and I mean it. Literally, open-door.

There was a time, about 25 years ago, when after a night of considerable debauchery, I started getting a cab driver to drive me to Chris's house — not thinking, or caring, that Chris was in Australia. I walked right through that front door — that yellow front door — at 3 a.m. — made my way up to the guest bedroom, and crashed out. I woke up in the morning to the sound of Jimmy Buffett and the smell of bacon, and I came downstairs to Spike and Cath saying, "Good morning, Janveaux — are you hungry?" And I just remember sitting there at the bar with them, laughing — slightly embarrassed, but I didn't have to be. They were very happy to have me there, and I was really happy to be there. That was Cathy.

Whether we knew it or not at the time, we were incredibly fortunate: to have been held to her standards, to have experienced her patience — and God knows, her forgiveness — as well as her generosity and, of course, her exquisite taste in all things food and wine. I've always believed there are certain people you meet in life who are simply cut from a different cloth, and Chris's family is full of them. Sorry.

Cathy and Spike, Bob and Fritzie too — each in their own way, they held us to account, invited us into their homes and their lives, and maybe most importantly, they showed us that we could do all of those things while having an awesome time doing it.

I hope we can all honor Cathy by carrying her with us — in the stories that we tell, the standards that we hold ourselves to, the way that we welcome people into our home, and the way that you take care of the people you love. We love you, Cathy.

Ryan

Hey, everyone. My name is Ryan Ramsdell.

I met Chris — I think it was 1987, maybe it was 1986 — at Malmo Elementary School. His house was right across the street, and it became my second home.

I wish I could tell you the first time I walked in the door, or the first time I met Cathy. But I can't. I honestly don't remember a time before. Cathy was always— she was simply just there.

Cathy never asked for a roaming pack of boys. We just kept showing up. We ate all her food, then we ate the cutlery. We would steal her booze — and then we would fill it back up with water. We tested her patience, and occasionally her rules. She might not always have liked us, but Lord, she always loved us.

One of Cathy's greatest strengths was that she was a teacher. And she taught us. Manners were always a must — and accountability. How to be a gracious winner and a good loser. How to stand up for yourself. How to follow your dreams, and how to support the people you love as they follow theirs.

Cathy believed in accountability. When Chris and I were 15, we stole her car one night. So we drove it all over the city. Before we went home, we made sure that we knew exactly how much gas was in it — so we stopped, filled it up, drove it home, and we thought we parked it safely in the garage. Which we did. It seemed like the perfect crime — except I left my hat in the back seat. It took Cathy about ten seconds to figure it out. Cathy was about consequences, and there were. She banned me from the house for a month. For a kid who practically lived there, I thought I was dying. But she didn't crack.

Years later, I finally told her the whole truth — including that I drove her car 165 kilometres an hour, down the High Level Bridge, in her Honda Accord. By that time, she could laugh about it. She did have a good sense of humor… but she wasn't happy about that, that's for sure. And what I understand now is that even in those moments, she was teaching us: accountability, consequences, and ultimately, forgiveness.

As boys, we didn't fully understand what she was giving us. But as men, we do.

Cathy, thank you for always being a safe place. Thank you for being an educator, a giver, a forgiver, a second mother — and later in life, an amazing friend.

Chris and Laura, you're the crown jewel of Cathy's legacy. When you meet people in life that are the caliber of these two individuals, you find yourself very lucky. Chris, you're an amazing man — sorry — you're a true alpha in how you build all of your friends up around you, how you always want to help. You protect the tribe. Your mom is so proud of you.

Whether it came to the house across from Malmo or the one in Grandview, neither was ever a building. Every room, every laugh, every late night is still perfectly preserved in our hearts. Because the real home was never the house itself. The real home was always Cathy.

I'm so sorry for your loss — all of you.

Thank you for everything, Cathy. Thank you for making us all feel so loved. We love you.

Laura

Life according to Cathy.

If you want to live your life according to Cathy, there are a few fundamentals you need to understand.

Not all of this is necessarily good advice. Some of it is highly specific. Some of it is questionable.

First, food.

There is no type of bread that cannot be improved by buttering it. Sandwiches, hamburgers, hot dog buns. Butter all the way to the edges. Special note to Kelly.

If a dessert calls for custard, Jell-O pudding is perfectly acceptable. If it calls for pastry, use frozen Tenderflake, roll it out yourself, and no one will ever know it wasn't homemade — until, of course, someone announces it at your funeral.

Hollandaise sauce, though, must be made from scratch. So must béarnaise. Hollandaise has lemon juice and goes on eggs and asparagus. Béarnaise is similar, but made with tarragon vinegar and shallots and goes on steak. I don't know why this distinction was important enough to be explained to me literally dozens of times throughout my life, but I am passing it on now — so Mom, you can rest easy!

Next, presentation.

Making the effort with your appearance for an event isn't only about how you look. It's a way of honouring the person who invited you.

Mom worked at Holt Renfrew and Blu's and always had an eye for fashion. Her favourite adjective was "vogue." If she loved something, you'd hear "That is so vogue."

The best investment you can make in clothing is not necessarily an expensive label. It's tailoring.

Mom, lifelong fashionista, was genuinely thrilled when I gave her two Old Navy sweatsuits this past Christmas. She immediately took them both to be altered to fit her perfectly, at a cost, no doubt, that surpassed the price of the clothes. And she looked great.

If you ever find a pair of navy shoes you like, buy them. Because when you actually need navy shoes, you will never be able to find them.

There are also rules for being a good host and a good guest.

If you bring cut flowers, have them already arranged in a vase.

Keep a little basket of toiletries for overnight guests. Spare toothbrushes, toothpaste, travel-sized hairspray, skincare samples, a sewing kit.

Keep excessive amounts of wrapping paper, ribbons, cards, and stamps on hand. Gifts don't need an occasion, but they do need beautiful wrapping.

And give gifts generously. Give them to the people at the nail salon. The mailman. The newspaper delivery person.

Always make everyone feel included, especially the kids.

Children in Mom's orbit would inevitably end up making something, playing a game, eating the best snacks, or being recruited into a craft project.

At Christmas, always make ornaments as a family. Put names and dates on them, because years later those little objects become a time capsule of the people who were there and the life that you shared.

Make the pavlova. Better yet, make three different kinds of pavlova!

And apparently, if the mood strikes you at your own wedding, streak through it in your underwear.

Another important rule: never look at the price of anything at the grocery store.

Mom genuinely believed the price of a grocery item was irrelevant information. If you need it, you need it.

This is not advice I can responsibly recommend to everyone. But it was very much my Mom.

Near the end of her life, Mom showed me another version of that same philosophy, simply by the way she lived.

Even knowing she had less than six months to live, she still bought things she wanted. New makeup. A new rug. An entire new set of dishes.

And what I took from watching her was simple: we only get one life. We don't take any of it with us. Enjoy the time we have — what we have — while we've got it. The Irish say it simply: "Shrouds have no pockets."

I think, looking back, this is how Mom mothered me. She showed her love by making sure I knew how to move through the world properly, "according to Cathy." How to host people, how to dress for an occasion, how to set a beautiful table, how to make hollandaise from scratch.

Whether all of this was actually necessary for my survival is debatable.

But to Mom, I think it meant I would be okay.

That was what was underneath so many of Mom's rules.

Use the good dishes.

Wear the beautiful clothes.

Spray paint the old furniture bright orange and put it outside.

And perhaps most importantly, choose the people you share your life with carefully.

Choose someone kind and generous. Someone who takes care of you in all the ways that matter, but especially emotionally.

And sometimes, if you're lucky, these people come into your life in ways you didn't expect. Kelly, my brother's wife, had so much in common with Mom. Fashion, cooking, decorating, entertaining. In many ways, she is much more like Mom than I am, and they have a really special relationship. Kelly, I know how much Mom appreciated having someone in the family who shared those parts of her so naturally, and she loved you so much.

And my brother Chris, after Spike died, stepped in and did so much to take care of Mom. He was there for her in countless practical ways, but more importantly, he made sure she wasn't carrying things alone.

Mom loved colour. She loved making things. She loved feeding people and giving them presents, and making occasions feel special.

She understood something important.

A life isn't made memorable by saving the good things for later.

It's made memorable by using them, and sharing them, joyfully.

So I will try to remember Mom's advice. I'll butter the bread right to the edges. I'll plan a craft for the kids to do after dinner. I'll buy the expensive cheese at the grocery store and try not to look at the price.

I'll use her good dishes, and when I've worn them right out feeding the people I love, I'll buy an entire new set.

And I'll try to make an occasion out of being here. Because Mom did. She brought fun wherever she went, and she was hilariously funny.

We were all so lucky to have her. And I was so lucky to be her daughter.

Thank you.

Chris

Thank you so much for being here.

My mother drove a bright orange Chevy HHR with EZRYDA on the licence plate and a giant stuffed tiger seat-belted into the front passenger seat. Oilers hat. Oilers jersey. Sunglasses. His name was Anthony.

That's the woman we're here for.

Mom loved things. A LOT of things. Mini eggs. A bowl by her bedside table and, I'm not kidding, another one on the treadmill. Ice in her water. A lot of ice. A full glass. In her G&Ts too. A basket. Especially a wicker one. Or a thousand. Scarves. So many scarves. Good wine. Her pond and her birds. A deck she planted with dozens of pots every spring. Spray paint. If she wanted something to be a different colour, she was one can away from it being so.

She loved orange, and every bold colour out there, with one steadfast exception. Pink. She did not love pink. Or a full garbage can. Or flat tonic water. Or Donald Trump.

And Mom didn't just love beautiful things. She made them. She sewed. She made her own jewellery. She made our Halloween costumes when we were kids. She dressed up for Canada Day like somebody was paying her. She dressed up Laura's dog Kaya, and she'd have dressed up mine if Casey had ever allowed it.

And in 2018 she made me a Christmas sweater. A three-dimensional snowman. Coal buttons, a knit scarf, pom-poms, jingle bells, and a marabou snowdrift down one side. And an enormous orange carrot nose, sticking straight out, dead centre, just below my belt buckle.

She thought that was hilarious. So did I. But that was the point.

She fed people. It's how she said most things. Christmas ran on a notebook: menus, grocery lists, guest lists. There was pavlova. There was a potato salad that has never been successfully reproduced. She made turkey pot pies and tourtières in enormous batches, and then sent most of them home to Calgary.

She loved giving gifts. She was also not above snooping on her own. One Christmas when I was little, Dad bought her Oscar de la Renta perfume, her favourite, and Laura and I had seen it early. Mom could not stand an unopened box with her name on it, and she worked on me for days. I put up a good fight. I really did. But eventually I cracked, and I gave her one hint: "Well, it's a guy that lives in a garbage can. And it's perfume."

Took her about four seconds. She knew exactly what TV shows I watched back then.

But most of the things Mom loved were people. Her brothers and their partners, her aunties and her uncles, her cousins, her nieces and her nephews. The neighbours and the neighbours' kids. Everyone she worked with, from Holts to Blu's to Baker Optical and Chili's, to every wine supplier we had in the business she built with Spike, and later ran with Kelly and me. Dana and Melinda, who started out working for her and ended up amongst her closest friends. Theresa, from the day they met. My friends, the whole degenerate lot of them, and their kids too.

If you're sitting in this room, you are among the people she loved.

I got forty-six years of it. And Mom didn't just love you. She loved you the way YOU needed. She pretended to care about my grades. She did not. Thankfully. Laura brought home straight A's while I scraped by with 50s, and Mom let Dad do the talking. She let us be us, and didn't complicate things with a bunch of rules we were sure to break anyways. That's why half of my friends practically lived at our house.

And whatever I was into, she nurtured it. I was a nerd. While I was still living at home I got heavily into botany. There were, at times, some suspect plants in the house. And cacti. At one point I moved on to mushroom growing. She never asked too many questions. She let me explore and learn and find myself.

So when she got sick, I did what nerds do. I built an app. It pulled in every blood result, graphed every number, sent the whole family updates in real time. Mom was fully supportive. She also never once pored over those reports the way that I did. Nobody did. She absolutely loved her hematologist, who she called "mohawk boy." And she bragged to him that her son saw her bloodwork before he did.

She wasn't cheering for the charts. She was cheering for me. That's how she mothered.

Mom had cancer three times. 2011, 2016, and for the last time in 2024. Fifteen years. She was very stoic and practical about it. She never wanted anybody's pity. Each time she faced it, she took it head on, without many tears and without much fanfare. Her attitude was that she would beat it, to the best of her ability, until she couldn't.

In 2012 she did the Run for the Cure. She walked under a banner that said Cathy's Cure Company, with a whole troop of family behind her. And she turned up head to toe in pink. A fuchsia wig. A feather boa. Enormous novelty sunglasses. Running shoes she'd covered by hand in flowers. White daisies at the toe, hot pink at the heel. And a hat she made herself, feathers over each ear, HAPPINESS across the front. Made out of Depends.

I wasn't there. I've only seen the photographs. She is beaming in every single one.

Did I mention that she hated pink? She didn't mention it once.

When Spike died in 2018, everybody worried. He had done so much. She hadn't put gas in her own car in over twenty-five years. She relearned the grocery store, the garbage, the laundry, all of it, faster than any of us expected. Lightbulbs remained my job.

In 2020 a squirrel got into the house and drowned in her toilet. She had to fish it out with a rubber glove, by herself. She sent us a photograph. And I've never seen a woman so appalled.

In her last weeks, at the beautiful Pilgrims Hospice, we watched the World Cup. Mom was tired by then. She rested most of the day. But the moment we put a game on, she'd perk right up. Eyes locked on the screen. Right till the final whistle. Then back to rest.

She loved watching the games. She always had. But she didn't much care who was playing — unless, of course, it was her beloved Edmonton Oilers. I could have told her it was two obscure baseball teams and she'd have settled in happily. What she cared about was watching with us. It was like that her whole life.

The mini eggs. The baskets. The scarves. Anthony. She really did love them all. But what she loved most of all was people. And most of all, Spike.

I've had two soulmates in my life. I married one of them. The other one raised me.

Mom, look at this room. It's full of your favourite people.

You would have loved this.