Tales of a Traumasita

       Introduction: A Knock At the Door.      Easter is supposed to be a resurrection. A celebration of life, rebirth, innocence wrapped in pastel-colored hope. But in 1986, on a cold Thursday in Mission British Columbia, Easter was gutted. Two small bodies were propped up on a couch, still warm from life, cloaked in a sheet. Between them , their father. His suicide wasn't a cry for help. It was an act of possession. One final, monstrous declaration: if I can't have them, no one can.      Anita was eleven. Richard was five. They were slaughtered by the man meant to protect them. Shot at close range with a rifle he didn't own. It wasn't impulsive. It was planned. Purchased ammo. Staged. Allan Dacre had pulled the trigger on more than just his children's lives- he obliterated the spine of everyone who loved them.       It's been almost four decades. But those who knew Anita and Richard, time hasn't healed a thing. The ...

       There are several ways to comfort someone in a time of need- a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear, a helping hand, or a simple kind word. When none of these apply: bring a casserole.       Being from the small town of Madeira Park, B.C., on the Sunshine Coast, you know everybody, and everybody knows you. Especially when your dad was one of eleven siblings, all but four were fishermen in those waters.  A small fishing community, where the passing and returning of casserole dishes were practically as frequent as brushing your teeth or tying your shoes.       The casserole signifies the intent of feeding or replenishing the soul. Its levels of carefully constructed ingredients bring nourishment to the body and a gift of time for the individual. It is a warm hug with no embrace and an offering of "I am here for you" when words do not meet these needs. Its layers of love, kindness, and something new to either console the hur...

       I don't remember my first bite of food, but I do remember the first time it was used against me.       I was five years old, hungry enough to gnaw through drywall, and the women who called herself my stepmother slammed down a plate of something rotten. "Eat it or starve" she said. That wasn't a metaphor. I had already gone two days without eating. She stood over me, hand ready.      That plate might as well have been a landmine.       I gagged.      She smirked.      And when I vomited, she made me eat that too.       So, no- this isn't a weight loss story. This isn't about willpower, or lettuce or macros. It's about how food became both my punishment and my prize. It's about how I learned, far to early, that hunger could mean danger and fullness could mean safety; or shame.       My body remembers things my brain doesn't. That's the cra...

      Some people are born with the temperament of a golden retriever- all soft eyes, tail wags, and an insatiable need to please.      Uncle Rob? He showed up in life more like a porcupine in steel toe boots, sturdy, loud, hilarious, a little intimidating, and somehow still the one of the coolest humans, ever.      This is a tribute to a man that's very much alive- and, despite a slowing body and increasingly prickly exterior, still sharp as hell and loved beyond measure. This is not a eulogy. This is a living love letter to a man who wouldn't know subtly if it smacked him across the ass with a salmon rod.                                                            A LEGEND ENTERS     I met Uncle Rob when I was 9 years old. He lived in our basement suite of our house in Burnaby, and to...

        I still set a place for you sometimes. You, the man who made meals feel like magic, who filled the house with spice and smoke and stories.      The food was your pride; the way you'd hover nearby, watching for my reaction. That fed me the most.       Now, the kitchen is painfully quiet, but I still hear you there.       A folded towel where your clothes used to land. A moment of silence before I lock the door, half expecting you to stumble in behind me.        I wonder if you know that.        Wonder.        It's a strange thing to live with, like an ache that never fully forms into pain. People think grief is heavy, a stone you carry. But wonder is lighter- more insidious. It floats, just out of reach, and it follows you everywhere.        I wonder what life would be like if you were still here.        There are day...