This is the second time I’ve had to write something like this on Rain, and I’d prefer it to be the last.
Anyone who follows my Facebook status knows by now that my cousin Vera died on Saturday. I don’t have a lot of information about what happened, though I am sure we will learn more as time progresses. All I know is that she was involved in what appears to be a single-vehicle motorcycle accident.
I wasn’t particularly close to Vera. My cousins on my father’s side all fall into three distinct groups. There are the first ones, the second ones and the third ones. I am in the second group, and Vera was in the first.
But I did know her. A few years ago, my father and I went out west to Comox to ski with Vera and her partner Mark at Mount Washington. It was an amazing trip, and we had a great time visiting with them. It was on that trip I learned the most about Vera that I’ve ever known.
I know she had a passion for skiing, and was very good at it. Her and Mark would whoosh down the steep slopes of Mount Washington so fast my father and I could barely keep up. They were keen to maximize the cost-per-run of their seasons passes. It was a lot of fun.
I learned on that trip that Vera loved her dogs with a ferocity that is usually reserved for children. It was amazing to see how much she loved those dogs. And somewhat sad, because that love should have been for a child. I think Vera would have been an amazing mother, but that wasn’t in her cards. For some people, it just doesn’t work out that way.
Interestingly, it was the lack of children that might have ultimately contributed to her death. In May, Vera bought a motorcycle. Apparently it also came with a tattoo, but I don’t know anything more than that. My father says she loved her motorcycle, and that she had come to the realization that since she wasn’t going to have kids, there was no reason to stockpile all her money for them, and so she bought the motorcycle.
Vera, you were a postal worker, skier, dog lover, woman, cousin, daughter, sister, aunt and friend, and we’ll all miss you. You’ve left a hole in our lives that will never be filled.