“I’m never gonna know you now, but I’m gonna love you anyhow.”

A cheap vanilla-scented candle gifted by a lover in the distant past of some other life. The flame they lit together under ill-fated circumstance burning unchecked and without regard for consequence. Sparks flying amid stuttered steps and rushed breath in windowless rooms with lights as bright as sunbeams. Faces washed out from overexposure, yet how they hold a glow. Blood rushes and hot passion and the feeling of this is it. This is it. Oh no, this is it. We're ruining everything. Cut the lights and let things burn until the cavalry heeds orders to halt under pressure from the heartbreak of choice. The fire snuffed out prematurely and the daydream suspended indefinitely. The doomed lovers and the vanilla scented candle, no longer evoking concupiscence and mutual desire, instead overwhelming the nostrils with regret and miasmic emptiness. The lusty boy and the lovesick girl who killed his wasted time. His resistance to playing the understudy in a show he'd never be cast in. Her failed resuscitative efforts to rouse a connection that was never rooted to begin with. And now, the tiny ball of wax kept as a memento seems insignificant as it mindlessly rolls between your fingers and finally disintegrates in your palm. And you breathe through the things you lost.

A plastic stick with two pink lines shoved to the back of the nightstand, hidden among folded 'I love you' notes to good mommies who read bedtime stories about brave girls and gentle boys. Mommies who teach their sleepy children about the borrowed earth and muse esoterically about how our soul moves through life in search of the things that feel closest to home. Bold yawns give way to soft closed lids, the last thoughts of the day firmly seeded within their perspicacious minds. The good mommy with the somnolent children uncaged from convention, and the plastic stick with the positive lines reluctantly discarded along with the sinking dreams you sometimes feel you don't deserve to hold again. Let the grief wash over you and let the water carry her away. And you feel gratitude for the things you have.

The sweet release of burning it all to ashes or allowing the river to flow. Bidding farewell to that younger self you were for a brief season, and giving yourself permission to grow. To accept what is and what never will be.

And now, you no longer wonder what if. You only see what is. You find the beauty in the seconds that are slipping away between you and all that you love. You slowly and thoughtfully listen to yourself and your inner knowing. You no longer seek to change things, knowing that change comes soon enough, and often without warning. You are content with what you've been given and what you have lost.

And with a deep and reverent breath, you say something like: I'll love you forever and I release myself from expecting anything to be different.

It can't be different.

The Queen of the Silver Dollar.

This is a hard one.

Weeks after being diagnosed with brain cancer, my darling Baba died last Friday.

Here is my memorial tribute to her:

On October 20th, 2023, at the age of 85, our ever so tenacious matriarch Fay Forsyth peacefully departed this world and entered into eternal rest.

I take comfort in knowing that she is reunited with her sweetheart, my Pa Jim, as well as a treasured collection of beloved family and friends.

Born in the Kootenays in the tiny Doukhobor community of Shoreacres, Baba started out her life as ‘Florence’. A small town girl determined to branch out and choose her own life and adventures, she soon decided to take the name ‘Fay’. Given how she infused a sense of magic into every situation, a moniker meaning ‘fairy’ proved fitting for the effervescent woman she would become. To her grandchildren, she was simply ‘Baba’. A warm, safe place to land. With soft blue eyes that gleamed with a playful zest for life and a tad of good trouble, Baba filled our childhoods with endless fun, imaginative play, and an appreciation for nature. Being in her presence always felt like home.

Baba’s soft side shined through when she fondly recalled her years as a bus driver for disabled children. As with the story of little Eric, who loved her so much that he exclaimed, “kiss me baby, but don’t slobber!”

As fierce and shrewd as she was funny and tender, Baba wasn’t one to mess with. But when facing the storms of life, it was in her arms that we ultimately found comfort. Her sharp wit and incredible memory made her a masterful storyteller. She never let me forget how, at 9 months old, I was the first and only grandchild to tell her to shut up (‘ya yup’).

I’ll cherish each and every memory. Dancing (‘shake your tail feather, babs!’), bonfires, boat rides, and trips up the mountain. Homemade borscht and baba juice. That time we had a sleepover in the sunroom, and like usual, stayed up chatting into the wee hours.

Though her body is at rest, her soul is infinitely weaved into the fabric of my life. I have immense gratitude for all she gave and left behind. Such an omnipresent force she was, that it seemed as though she’d live forever. In a way, she always will.

Sleep peacefully, babaroo. It’s not goodbye forever. It’s just goodbye for now. You’ll always be my hummingbird.

Ya lyublyu tebya. 💜