The Fireplace

Sometimes art begins as photographs of tree bark, peeling paint and winter branches. Sometimes it quietly becomes something else entirely. This is the story of how three artworks became love letters to three remarkable lives, to a friendship spanning decades, and to the hidden roots that continue to nourish us long after loss.

Three degrees. Pyjamas masquerading as thermal underwear. A borrowed puffer vest. The wrong AFL beanie. Ancient Montreal gloves. Apparently this is what adventure looks like at fifty-two...

no. 1 In the trilogy: Odes to Ordinary Things I sat down at my desk this morning determined to conquer the day. My body lodged an objection. My neck complained. My shoulders protested. My back submitted a formal grievance. A knee I don't even remember injuring requested the floor. For a while, I interpreted this as resistance. A failure of discipline. An obstacle to overcome. Then it occurred to me that perhaps my body was not refusing to participate. Perhaps it was simply ti

no. 2 In the trilogy: Odes to Ordinary Things This morning I found a to-do list from three weeks ago. Several items remained unfinished. One task had been moved to three separate lists. Another had been circled. Twice. One ambitious item appeared to have been underlined in what I can only assume was a burst of optimism. I considered feeling guilty. The list certainly seemed to think that would be appropriate. Instead, I found myself wondering about all the things that hadn't

no. 3 In the Trilogy: Odes to Ordinary Things I have made a decision. Naturally, this is when the second guess arrives. Not before the decision. That would be helpful. No, the second guess waits politely until I have committed to a direction and then appears in the doorway carrying several alternative possibilities. "Have we considered that this is a terrible mistake?" It raises some interesting points. It always does. For years, I assumed the second guess was an enemy. A sig