papers, put on my deerstalker hat, and, instead of a pipe, cradled a glass of red wine.
I stumbled onto an obituary for a woman who’d passed away peacefully in her 84th year, the beloved wife of C. Fallis for 61 years. A cherished mother to four girls and two boys. Treasured grandmother of 13 grandchildren and two great grandchildren.
61 years of marriage and six children, the oldest daughter a teacher no less.
Her husband, C. Fallis passed away in his 92nd year in Lindsay, with his six children by his side. Loved grandfather of 13 grandchildren, 11 great grandchildren.
In 1978, she would have been 55 years old. She died in 2006. In 1978, he would have been 56 years old. He died in 2013. I guess the dimes were trying to tell me something after all. The obituary was incorrect, they had 14 grandchildren.
Growing up, I constructed a reality wherein my birth mother and father had gone their separate ways, driven apart over losing me. She’d eventually gone on to great adventures, travelling the world, marrying royalty. It was a juvenile fantasy that helped me better cope with my own loss. Now, as an adult, I spent time sifting through each Facebook post pertaining to her, trying to get a sense of the woman she had become over the past thirty-eight years. She was married, had three sons. They’d just had photos taken at Christmas. They all looked happy. Her youngest son used the family photo opportunity to propose to his girlfriend. Soon, she would have a daughter-in-law. According to many posts, her middle name was Joy. It seemed to suit her, she seemed to
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