I write this posthumously, impossible though it seems, having suffered a fate similar to an uncle and cousin. Now, my brother and sister are about to dispose of my ashes. (I’ve since been cremated) and I’m curious to hear the eulogy—if there is one—they are extremely self-centred individuals and don’t really have a clue about me, or about themselves for that matter. . . So while I miss the wind in my face, I am quite happy to be dead.

Dave Mackenzie-Givens 1955-2005

*

He slips into the lower Mahihkan River. He incorporates the roar into the brilliant white sun. But suddenly the keel beneath him collides rumbling over the rocks while the white water sends a rake of fear up his back and lends his arms strength he knows he has. His lungs burn and knees gristle while sweat stings his eyes. He holds on through the interminable, ripping eddies, trying not to sideslip until he’s through into the clean, quiet flow—the roar behind him. Ahead, a raven springs off a pine bough, spreads his big black wings and laughs. Harold laughs back.”

*

 “Talent,” says Dianne, “is when you can sit down at a desk in grade two and draw a duck, even though you’ve never drawn a duck before.”

“That’s talent; you can draw a duck.”

“In grade two, yes. Or a horse that looks like a horse.”

“So that’s talent.”

“Or when you can pick up a guitar or sit at a piano and just play, even though you’ve never seen a guitar or piano before. You can just sit there and the music pours out of you without trying. That’s talent, raw talent.”

“I never had a guitar in grade two.”

“I know that, Denny. I’m not talking about you personally, just you generally and what talent is.”

“I never had a piano either.”