Trying to find meaning in a life that was taken, twisted inside out and ripped apart. Hmmm, not easy…but sometimes into the twisted, torn pieces, wonderful things happen. Miracles, I would say…and no, it’s not winning the lottery. Money means nothing; it can’t bring my son back to life. He is gone. But, his memory does live on…
I met a young man recently, quite by accident. I have never seen him before or heard his name. He approached me at an event where I had some of my writing (including The Cedar Canoe) displayed. He told me he had known Ryan. They had worked together.
With great emotion, he told me a couple of funny stories about Ryan. He and Ryan bought vehicles at around the same time and Ryan, who bought a corolla always bugged him about his car being the better one. They would jokingly argue about this. Then one day, this man’s car actually did break down and he had to pull over on the side of the road. Well, of course, who should drive by? Ryan, laughing.
He said that Ryan used to speak to him in “Ojibway” at work and he never believed that Ryan was actually speaking this language; he thought Ryan was making up a pretend language. He later learned that Ryan did actually know some Ojibway words.
But the most wonderful part of this is that he said that Ryan’s death changed his life. He was going down the wrong road and he changed his direction and is now living a good life. He had tears in his eyes. So did I.