first person

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Losing your parents, if you are one of the lucky ones who had it good, means a part of you is always missing.

My sister and I buried our mom and dad not long ago. Or at least half of them. Two not quite traditional services. One in Ontario. One in Quebec, 250 kilometres apart. One in an English ceremony, one in French.

Dick and Lucie (as I like to call them) had been happily married for more than 60 years and, to her dying day, he was her knight in shining armour. But in no way was she going to be laid to rest outside of Quebec surrounded by anglos and he, having begrudgingly spent most of his life in the francophone province, was absolutel

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