My parents’ deaths were 15 years apart and each occurred within the context of such a dysfunctional family dynamic, that it’s difficult (and unnecessary, for the purposes of this piece) to describe it all.

I got a call on a cold November evening in 1979 while I was engrossed in the first few months of my University of Alberta studies, living in my cozy little off-campus Edmonton basement suite; bear in mind that those were the days before call display and when calling long-distance wasn’t an expense to be taken lightly. It was my high school basketball coach.

I think about death. Not in a fearful or worrisome way, or about what happens after we die, but about the role that death and grief play in our lives.