I HAD only written two drafts of what would become Mittens to Share, my latest children’s book, when I decided to dedicate it to a dying friend. The book had yet to be illustrated and wouldn’t be published for another two years, but John was in his last days and I wanted to tell him about my plans while I could. I was at loose ends. Anything I said would only underscore the unspoken: John would not live to hold the finished book and read the dedication.
John and I had met a continent away. We were both in our early 20s and had made a two-year commitment to teach in rural villages in Botswana. It was there we found the soil in which an enduring bond took root. Our paths didn’t cross often after we returned to Canada, but when they did there was an ease and love that was marrow-deep. We danced at each other’s weddings, rejoiced in the birth of each other’s children.
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