I remember that I was in doubt how to call you: Elsie or just ‘mom’. We were talking on the phone. I remember my staggering English, but eventually we both concluded that calling you mom was fine: I was going to marry your daughter anyways which you already knew by that time.
Time has gone by. We became good friends, besides just being son-in-law and mom-in-law. I paid you a visit week after week. We battled cold winters, icy sidewalks, muddy backroads, loads of earwigs, virusses and other critters. We drank our tea, discussed Canadian matters, politics, family affairs, immigration cases. You met my sisters, my mirror image (‘Lets keep him here!’) and one of my best friends. We had plenty of suppers together, we played Scrabble and we laughed about our silly pets and your silly cat.
After your first stroke, we became even closer when I decided to do my part of the promise to visit you on a daily basis. The tea was as always ready, we made up grocery lists together and we poked fun at death, as you became aware that, after so many years knowing each other, I wasn’t religious at all. But I knew my ways around in the Bible and that was good enough for you.
Your last stroke shocked us. You were doing so great. I was the last one to see you alive and that day we were kidding about baking. It was like a contest: I was going to bake bread and you were going to do your donuts. It was all going to be great fun, because after all, that was what your life was all about. The fun. Nothing complex, no strange philosophies or religions. Just plain fun.
After death, there’s no pain, no suffering and there are no worries, just the glory of having lived on a place called Earth. In your case, 82 years. You’ll be missed,
Arthur