Another I Won’t Meet In This Life

No. 107

“They even called it a ‘bizarre David Lynch-like thriller,’” cousin Bob said, holding The Globe and Mail paper closer to his face, adding, “‘about obsession, delusion and determination.’”

I nodded as he set the paper down on their kitchen table top where I was picking from a selection of giant green and black olives and an assortment of cheese and crackers his wife cousin Marg had prepared. I was famished and tired and a little surprised at what he’d read aloud from the article, as I’d only had time to skim what had been written.

“That’s pretty high praise in my book,” cousin Bob went on, a fine writer himself. This could have been a dream but it wasn’t. Surreal, yes, but not a dream.

The event was several years ago—almost nine years now—but the memory is as real as if it had happened yesterday. This recollection was brought to light more recently upon hearing the news of David Lynch’s passing.