THE OSTRICH DIED ON A COLD, CLEAR EVENING in late November.
It died in the barn, sometime before dinner. My youngest nephew made the important announcement from the doorway of the kitchen, with all the solemnity of a small town crier.
“Dead!”
He flapped a wet woollen mitten off his left hand. It slid across the linoleum, coming to a defeated stop at my sister’s feet as she set the tuna casserole down on the counter.
The boy tugged at the other mitt with his teeth: “Dead as a doornail.”
“Who’s dead?” asked my middle nephew from the couch, with only mild interest.
Death was no stranger to the Miller-Hansson farm. During the heat dome last spring, most of the hay crop failed. Half the calves were born sickly and didn’t make it through the summer. In mid-September, my father and Steve’s father – both residents at Sunset Lodge, the long-term care home down the road towards Valleyview – died of a respiratory illness within days of each other. The arrival of death at the Miller-Hansson door had ceased to shock. Certainly, it wasn’t worth losing a game of League. Nicholas didn’t even look up from the screen.