There's one place I always go when I'm in Vancouver: the White Spot. Sure, there's a Triple O sign on every corner and I'm not sure if it's for the food or for the memories but it just doesn't seem like a trip to the West Coast without stopping in for lunch. The White Spot reminds me of all the times I sat in the drive-in parking lot in my uncle Tom's car, waiting for servers to bring out long, skinny trays of burgers and Coca-Colas while having some laughs.
My uncle Tom died almost six years ago. It was July 11, 2005 when my mom and I ventured out for a day of exploration. My folks had moved to St. John's, Newfoundland several months earlier and it was the first time I went out to visit. I had just dipped my feet in the Atlantic Ocean for the first and only time in my life when my mom realized she had forgotten her cell phone at home. We stopped at the house to pick it up before going on a whale watching tour that would inevitably lead to my Screeching-in. A quick press of the message button on the machine changed everything.
"Marcia, it's Marguerite. Please call me."
It was as if she knew based on that message, that half-sentence. It's a funny thing when that happens -- that feeling you get when something awful strikes. My dad came home from work to tell my mom that her 56 year old brother had died.
In less than 48 hours I had flown from Winnipeg to Toronto to St. John's back to Toronto until finally landing in Vancouver. My mom and I stepped off the plane with hearts so heavy it felt like they'd never be the same again. All I can remember is the sinking feeling of walking into my uncle's home wanting to be anywhere else in the world at that very moment hoping it was some morbid practical joke.
Like Christmases before there is a missing piece and just as empty as I felt then I still do now. I look around his office, missing him and I remember how grateful and blessed I truly am to spend even just four days with the people I love the most.
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