​We think Death comes as a stranger, but no. Death visits like the weird family member that we try to avoid, because Death, like family, is unmoved by our preferences. A cherished pet passes and our tears disturb their unmoving fur. A child grasps Death’s hand before the parents can wave goodbye. A wife lets go of her partner and slips into Death’s arms. Is Death a stranger then? No; we may take Death for a stranger, but we eventually grow to realize that like family, Death is always present, able to visit when needed.
​
Sometimes Death visits unexpectedly like a surprise 

He is chopping tomatoes in the kitchen when he hears the front door close and the familiar clink of keys in the porcelain planter. The kids, three of them, are chasing the dog around the backyard and a medley of squeals and barks are carried through the open patio doors on a spring breeze. A pan of water simmers, forgotten, on the stove. Somewhere in the house, music plays faintly.
 
Anna throws a stack of plastic-wrapped shirts and dresses over the back of the sofa and kicks off her shoes.

Spit shined boots and far away eyes,
Look past you at comrades that never came home.
It’s time to remember.
 
The silence, a poppy, A pittance of time,
A poem dragged up from school days long ago.
It’s time to remember.
 
We’ll meet again and Sweet Lily Marlaine,
Auschwitz and Buchhold, and Kaslo, BC.
It’s time to remember.
 
Quavering voice in a long Checkout line,
Halting and fumbling, with faltering steps.
Now is the time to remember.
 
Crumbs on his shirt and stains on his pants,
Mind not quite certain and steps not quite sure.
This too, is the time to remember.

​Just like last Halloween, it started with the pumpkins. Danny rounded us up after sunset, and we prowled front porches for pumpkins to smash. Danny preferred the carved ones. It was obvious which had been done by kids – the lopsided triangular eyes, pencil lines still visible where a knife sliced unevenly through the orange flesh. Then there were the ones done by mothers. The designs of cats, witches or skulls required an experienced hand.

We always followed Danny; his same dirty jean jacket illuminated by the hazy streetlamps. We stuck to the shadows as best we could, avoiding the trick-or-

The lawnmower starts on the first pull. He must have fixed it. The sweet scent of fresh cut grass drifts down through the holes in the lawn. Jeffery aerated yesterday. He is a conscientious gardener. The flower beds are meticulously weeded, the trees are trimmed, and the house plants are tendered like the babies we never had. I wish I’d been a rose or an elm or even a cactus. Perhaps, his eyes would have fallen on me with the love he shines on his earthy passions.
​
It was a jackrabbit morning in Calgary the day he 

​Water lapped against the craggy shore as Thalia stared at the weathered dock. She could see her sister still, a moment trapped in time, unmooring the lone boat, turning toward her one last time, winking, pretending everything would be all right, that she was all right.

​A respected elder, a survivor of the lake, had spoken to Thalia then, “If she’s strong enough, she’ll return. She should be given the chance to try.” Always so calm, these survivors were, confident, charismatic, returned better than they were before, changed. Enviably so. “But at what cost?” a still grieving family member of a soul lost to the secrets of the lake shouted in reply. A 

“I bet you were as snug as a bug in a rug in your new sleeping bag.” I cringe as soon as the words leave my mouth.

My teenage stepdaughter rolls her eyes. “Oh god. That’s so cliché. Can’t you at least be original?”

​It was a mistake to engage with her this morning, so I finish filling my travel mug and escape out the cabin door. My breath puffs in the mountain air while I take mincing steps down the frosty ramp to the kayak. Its molded plastic seat is unpleasantly cold against my bare legs when I settle into the cockpit. It is chillier 

The canoe bumps and skitters. The tide is low and Ronald drags it first over rocks (screak), then sand (swoosh) and finally through muddy sea grass (squilsh). He debates putting his headphones on but decides against it.   In the morning, early in the light, the sounds are mostly singular, an echo only of themselves. He feels he can handle any discordant noise. If he turns on the noise-cancelling, he will miss the sounds he loves – the squelch of his crocs in the mud, the squawk of the gulls in the distance, the squidge of water displaced by clams, shooting up in miniature fountains. Still, it is only when the canoe is afloat and he steps inside, pushing off the mud with his paddle that he loses the jittery nerves. He is alone,

In a package
in a drawer,
in a cabinet, china-stuffed,
some serviettes wait patiently;
a thin wrapper of cellophane
the veil that divides design from destiny--
that single, elegant moment of
wiping a wayward smudge of soup or sauce
off hand or lips or cheek.
 
In a box
within a box,
in a drawer of fancy baubles,
some precious jewels lie dormant;
a thin patina of tarnish
obscuring their previous state of glory,
while newer, brighter counterparts
sparkle and dangle frequently
from ear and neck and wrist.

​When we moved in, the walls looked like puke. Brown and yellowish-green flakes of old paint hung off of cracked surfaces, making it look like the inside of the house was shedding its skin. No problem my mom said, nothing a little elbow grease can’t fix, right, honey? Dad, looking resigned, told Amy and me to run upstairs and find our new rooms. Amy darted like a jackrabbit, pulling me along. Can you believe we live in a place with stairs, she said. Seven-year-olds are so easy to impress.
 
I was two years older and infinitely more wise. The move from our apartment downtown to the fixer-