By coincidence, I quietly haunt the old neighbourhoods where Eve Joseph has spent her formative years. My residence is not far from the Burrard Inlet. My own father’s ashes, the scattering of which manifested into one of my first published poems, co-mingles in the same waters where Joseph scattered the remains of her mother. I often think of my likely role as the family “death shepherd”: the youngest one in the family who may have the duty or privilege to hold the hands of their immediate family as they cross into the ethers. Beyond the moment of passing, there is the physical aftercare of the spiritless body, paperwork, consoling of others whilst on autopilot. This necessary matter of dying can be feared, anticipated, and a relief all at once, to the living or otherwise. What this book touches upon, is the non-linear way in which we can process death. It’s not meant to be a how-to on grieving, what to expect when we pass, or what the living can do to prepare for the worst. But it may bring comfort in its practical approach to death and dying, specifically with one’s own mortality.
In her work as a palliative care counsellor, Joseph encountered many circumstances where the dying in the absence of family had only her, a stranger, escorting them over to the next realm. She recounts some of their stories in their final weeks and days. Interspersed are reflections on her own personal losses, the mystery of death accompanying her since early adolescence.
The majesty of our north shore mountains and its rich natural elements are a back drop for experiencing death amongst us. Joseph shares her knowledge of and familial connections to the local First Nations communities and their beliefs about the dead. The importance of animal symbolism in Irish and Hindu mythology, and her first-hand account of the strange behaviours of animals when death approaches all demonstrate the interconnectedness of the living with the things we cannot see.
I read this page-tuner during the quietest moments of a few August nights, thinking about my father, and other family death anniversaries. I agree with Joseph’s point that we are in an age where people turn away from the subject of death, especially in language. The memorial service pamphlet that reads “Celebration of Life”, for example. It reminded me of how much I hated reading the word “deceased” in all the paperwork that needed to be filled out. Can we refer to the dead as something else? “Loved one” seems too informal on a page that also asks for a social insurance number. “Celebration” also seems like a word that suits those who are less emotionally drained by the act of grieving, the ones who appear at the service with full appetites for sandwiches.
There’s a simple, honest elegance in Joseph’s writing. “We don’t know that sometimes we will be profoundly moved by the beauty of a death and other times we will be horrified by the reality” is personally relatable. The beauty of her poetry also accompanies her descriptions of the dead amongst the living. In a first nations residential area which I frequently drive by, there are two neon crosses atop St. Paul’s Indian church spires that are clearly visible on approach from a main thoroughfare, especially at night. I had never thought of them as “freshly cracked glow sticks” but I will during the upcoming “fall back” months of longer darkness, when nature stalls, if only to rest for a while.
