First memory: Yellow flowers in a bed of ice crystals: brown eyes, the closeness and full volume of love, the dewy sweet breath of summer, your face eclipsing the sun. I paced the room quietly, mind racing and heart pounding as images emerged like stills in a vintage projector, a Kodachrome of bright colors and grainy transitions, a lifetime of memories playing out simultaneously: picnicking by the Rideau Canal, camping up at Keswick, Christmases, first days of school, first days of summer, sitting in waiting rooms, waking from surgeries, drinking tea, delicious fish curries, a pristinely white nursing uniform, the cold bite of winter on her cheek, warm hugs and kisses, collectively, a full and complete celebration of life, every moment recorded by memory, magnified and savored, sacred with meaning. That night when I called for an ambulance, I knew in my heart that mom wouldn’t be coming back home. The dispatcher kept me on the line for forty-five minutes assessing the ...