Tonight.

I can't remember the last time that I had an evening where I was this sad. Not pathetically or weepily sad...just in a profound state of reflection. I normally have pretty much only one emotion: normal. Not so tonight.

On August 4th of this year, sometime around 10:30pm my stepfather was going to work on his motorcycle. He loved his motorcycle; 2001 Kawasaki Ninja, green. He spent years doing everything he, my mother, his two daughters and my brother and I needed. House, cars, everything else before he bought that bike -- it was his only 'toy'.

He was killed instantly by a driver leaving a parking lot only two blocks away from work, only 51 years old. The other driver is said not to have stopped at the lot exit, this being a statement that I can't actually make until the police conclude their investigation, but after looking at the scene myself it is decidedly obvious that that was the case. He was wearing full protective equipment -- all body leathers, with bike boots and of course a helmet. He always did, even if he was just going around the block. They didn't help, but at the same time I give a new look of scorn to those bikers who don't wear proper safety equipment, as I pass by.

I got the call at 5am the next morning; calls from family before the sun rises are rarely good. Within a few hours I was on the road to Whitby. The whole way there I watched cars and bikes flow past and around...everyone's life just...continuing. I wanted to scream, "Stop the world! I want someone, everyone, to take notice that Greg is gone." Does everyone feel this when someone dies unexpectedly?

The next few days are a blur in my memory. The funeral was five days later, but so much had to be done before then. How can the government, the world in fact, expect a grieving spouse to begin filling-out insurance paperwork and visiting banks to deal with account transfers during the week of her husband's death? It's all deadlined...it has to be done...the spouse's financial solvency depends on it. We as a society have a long way to go in our treatment and handling of the survivors of unexpected loss. My uncle and I did as much as we could, but so much has been left to my mother. It aggravates the grieving process in such a terrible way.

The truly terrible and infinitely regrettable point for me is that I never truly got to know how great a person Greg was before he was gone. I know, we all say that right? But really, I always knew he was a terrific person because of how he made my mother feel -- she lived the last 16 years like none I'd ever seen before. Their relationship is one of the few bright lights that I've used to convince myself away from a permanent state of relationship pessimism. Anybody who could show that state of wonderful to my mother had to be a truly good person. But aside from that, I never saw a lot of direct evidence of it -- I mean, I never lived with them so I never had an opportunity to be around through the normals of daily life.

That week, the one before the funeral, really made me see. The number of neighbours, ostensibly in this day and age, strangers, that came and told stories about how Greg did this, or Greg did that. Took care of their lawns. Carried their groceries. Fixed their cars. Help with problems. Teach them things. E.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g. One night at about 11pm I answered the phone after my mother was asleep and an elderly man asked for Greg. I began to explain what I'd managed to explain a hundred or so times by this point and he went to tears on the other end of the phone. When he was able to explain he mentioned that he only knew Greg from Don Cherry's (a local bar...a chain in Southern Ontario) but that Greg was the guy that would always take him to his doctor's appointments and to the hospital for x-rays. It became clear to me that he had similar 'relationships' with many people from Don Cherry's. Greg was just that type of guy.

The funeral was bigger than any I've ever attended. The sheer number of people that came was staggering. More than would fit in the chapel, the overflow wouldn't even fit in the standing room behind the chapel. Greg was a much-loved man. There wasn't a dry eye in the building, including the hundred or so coworkers from GM. People said wonderful things. I didn't get up and speak, I couldn't find the words to describe what I wanted to say. The funeral ended with myself, my brother, and four other family members carrying Greg's coffin and putting it into the hearse. What a surreal experience. I only remember it as barely being there...barely cognisant of that fact that we were carrying Greg, my stepfather, my friend.

Everytime I see those Lance Armstrong bracelets, you know, "Live Strong" yellow bracelets, I get this feeling that I want to make my own and I want them to say "Live Like Greg". His philosphy was just like Pay It Forward, but in smaller steps, all the time. We would all do well to live a life like that.