A Room Of My Own

When a fallen soldier returns home... After spending more than a decade living away from Ontario, living in BC, I decided to move my family back home - home for me anyways. We settled in the Quinte area and I slowly re-familiarized myself with the culture here. Soon after the move we planned a trip to Toronto. We headed West on the 401, and just after passing Trenton, we came to a bridge draped in a Canadian flag. It was not Canada day. The bridge was full of people wearing red. There was a fire truck there with lights swirling, cars were honking, people were waving and I was confused and proud at the same time. The next bridge and every bridge thereafter was the same; police cars, emergency vehicles, more fire trucks at every bridge and overpass. More honking- more people- more pride. It was quite moving. It was only afterwards that I learned I had been following a repatriation motorcade. The year was 2002. Repatriation ceremonies are a part of the culture here that is not witnes...

I am driving back to work after spending my lunch hour in a hurry picking up supplies. I am picking up the last minute supplies for summer camp, vegetarian options for a BBQ at the neighbors’ tonight, and the gift ideas as the BBQ includes a birthday. My mind is busy; I am ‘Busy Backson’, as my daughter has pointed out from The Tao of Pooh. My window is down, it is lovely out and I am listening to Rufus Wainwright; okay, I admit I am singing along with him as if I know him personally. “ He will fall from the stars, Studio 54 ” Stop. I see the familiar lights of a police cruiser up ahead, followed by what looks like traffic mayhem. The police escort a long line of cars in a funeral procession as it slowly makes its way through the busy lunch hour traffic on this main street. Traffic slows to a standstill. Lights are blinking, mourners dressed respectably in appropriate funeral attire with matching stoic expressions have their eyes straight ahead, driving, following. Life seems to slow a...