Prologue
A little over a year before his own, my father attends a funeral.
It’s Saturday, September 17, 1994. Somewhere inside the expansive
Cathedral Church of All Saints in the South End of Halifax, Nova
Scotia, he sits, deliberately beyond the reach of any camera lens there
to capture the sea of recognizable faces of the over 600 mourners—
including local and national community leaders, news reporters, and
a handful of provincial politicians. Tension rides the lines of his body
as he hunches low in the wooden pew and grips my mom’s hand for
support. He wears his dark tailored suit, crisp white shirt, and satin tie,
handsome and robust despite concerted efforts to make himself small.
No visible physical signs yet forecast that in fifteen months, when his
lungs are ravaged by pneumocystis pneumonia (PCP) and his body
emaciated by other unidentified opportunistic infections, he will die.
White-robed choir members and participating officiants with red
ribbons pinned at their hearts process down the long aisle of the narrow
sanctuary to the front chancel, and the resonant timbre of the church’s
pipe organ fills the space with the rich notes of the Anglican hymn,
“Alleluia! Sing to Jesus.” Beneath the gothic architecture—ornate wood
carvings, towering arches, and vaulted ceilings—the wooden pews and
additional blue folding chairs are packed with the family, friends, and
followers of thirty-eight-year-old Randy Conners. In the front row,
Randy’s widow, Janet, dressed in a long black gold-buttoned jacket
over simple black slacks, leans her slim frame against her fourteen-
year-old son as she dabs her tear-filled eyes with the tissue she clutches
in her fist.
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