Evening

My father died on the first of August at the age of 90 3/4 after a rich life filled with accomplishments and blessings. Several days later, we celebrated his life with a simple yet moving ceremony followed by a reception at the family home he had lived in for the last 45 years of his life, most of them with his beloved wife, my mother. The house will soon be empty but on that fine Sunday afternoon it was filled with friends and family who had come to honour my father’s memory one last time.

Most of the people had left as evening came. Those who remained, lingered in front of the house, perhaps not ready to say goodbye just yet. Or simply wishing to enjoy every last minute of the exceptionally beautiful day, one of the few we have had this summer.

The light was magical as night fell. Evening: the liminal space between day and night. Dusk. Twilight. The gloaming. Crépuscule in French. Or its mirror twin in Spanish: madrugada. I wonder if there is a language where the words for this mystical moment between day and night have no poetry?

As we stood around waiting for someone to decide to leave, a car came down the street and stopped suddenly. There, not moving, frozen in the bright headlights, was a small hare quietly sitting in the road. I saw that the driver growing impatient and as the hare seemed to be in no hurry to move, I shooed it gently to the front lawn of the neighbour across from my parents house.

Again, it just sat there quietly.

Watching us as we watched him.

I saw my youngest niece coming down the stairs and took her by the hand and led her across the road. The light was fading so she didn’t see the hare at first. When she did, we just stood there watching as I whispered to her: ‘It’s Grampa. He’s come to let us know that he’s okay and to tell us that we’ll be okay too.

City dwellers are always moved by encounters with wild animals. It is rare in the country to come across an animal such as a hare or a fox but it is even more so in the middle of a large city. I have seen of course many racoons and the occasional skunk. But never a hare. It is difficult not to feel that such an encounter is a privilege, a message.

I am not at all superstitious and my father was even less so. He had no time for horoscopes, astrology or fortune tellers, nor do I. Yet I have always had a certain fascination for the ancient beliefs about animal portends, oracles, augury (messages brought by birds and their behaviour). Greek and Roman mythology as well as of course Indigenous North American traditions abound in stories and legends concerning encounters with wild animals and their meaning.

I think the impulse to seek meaning and significance in chance meetings with wild animals is a deep seated human characteristic. It is a basic human trait to try to make sense of the world by adding meaning and significance to supposedly random events; to see pictures in clouds and hear voices in the wind passing through trees. Ancients druids and priests claimed access to special knowledge and understanding of these encounters.

But I have no need of such guidance. I know what I saw and felt in that special moment. The comfort I take from this encounter will remain with me for as long as I keep the memory of my father. We will miss him, but we will be okay as long as we remember and feel his presence in the people and the world he loved. The hare came to let us know this.

Charles Pless, August 2023

( Painting by the brilliant Nancy Friedland. You can see more of her work HERE. )