When We Do Not Grieve, We Do Not Live.

My aunt’s remains have been identified. It appears that the story is almost at an end…

It would have been nicer to get better news, but we knew that was unlikely. Or if it had been a more positive identification, but, while forensic anthropology is creative science it is also efficient, so I will trust the report. I am just relieved for my dad’s sake, as knowing (even if horrible), must be preferable to wondering and thinking the worst. Now we wait for details on what happened, but we at least know how the events ended- even if not how they took place.

I will call my parents in the morning to let them know that I know. (Thanks to Catherine who heard first, and, in an act of beautiful friendship and charity- one more appreciated then even she knows, I think- called me to tell me and to condole. My mum will be glad to not actually have to break the news to me. She can send her gratitude to Charlottetown for her relief.) I will wait until morning, so I don’t cry. That would distress my mum more than the news itself.

My aunt had a great laugh, she loved dogs, and some of my best memories of home come from her. And when I was little I used to descend the staircase in her old house by scooting down one at a time on my butt, because I was scared of walking down with my small legs. One year she sent me a whole parcel full of old photographs, on the back of each she had written descriptions of each long gone family member, so that I would know them a little. When I told her how much I loved John, she knit him socks to welcome him to the family- letting me pick the yarn, and sitting and talking to me about him and her life and other things while she made them. They are still in the drawer.

I am grateful for these memories, and I am grateful for having known her.

Rest in Peace.


When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. ~Kahlil Gibran