I remember something that happened three
years ago. François’ illness had progressed so much that he no longer
communicated verbally and that weighed heavily on me. Once, I told him, “I wish
you could tell me what is happening in your mind, François. I wish I could understand
what you are feeling.” He said nothing then, but several weeks later, he looked
at me, and his eyes told me that he had somehow broken through the haze of
dementia for a few seconds and he told me, “You know what I really want? I wish
I could sleep a deep peaceful sleep.” Those were the very last words he spoke
to me. I am convinced François is at peace right now. I believe his last
expressed wish was fulfilled. I felt that very strongly when I sat by his bedside
after he passed away last week.
Two days later, that feeling was strengthened
by a little incidence. There was a pigeon on our balcony. It was a very light beige,
and, at a distance, it looked almost as white as a dove. Diane tried to shoo it
away, but it seemed unable to fly. I assumed that it was hurt, and I called the
Ottawa Valley Wild Bird Care Center to find out what I should do. They said it
might simply be a very young pigeon who was not yet used to flying and
suggested I wait a few hours before bringing it to them. In the afternoon,
it was gone. It had learned how to use its wings.
The next morning, Rita, François wife, emailed
me the English text of François’ obituary and asked me to translate it into
French so that it could appear in the local French newspaper. The last sentence
in the text read, “Memorial donations to the charity of your choice, including to
the Ottawa Valley Wild Bird Care Center, would be appreciated.” I thought, “François
sent me a peace dove to let me know that he was indeed now sleeping a “deep
peaceful sleep. He has found his wings.” Rest in peace little brother.
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