The other night I had dinner at my great-aunt Diane’s. Diane lives in Westmount, Montreal’s old posh neighbourhood, up on the hill. It’s a spacious cream-coloured apartment that opens onto an interior courtyard dotted with fancy shrubs, rocks and the sorts of trees that get covered in flowers, when the weather gets warm. The place is full of interesting things to look at. There’s pottery in bookshelves, intricately patterned rugs and an armadillo sculpture resting on a wooden chest, made out of a scrap of metal that looks like it could have had something to do with tilling soil, a long time ago.

For 50 years, Diane was married to my great-uncle Peter. The two of them were some of my favourite people in the world. I remember being a little girl and telling my dad we to needed to visit with them more often. They had beautiful white hair, old world elegance, and wild cross-country croquet games. It made me feel good, knowing we were related by blood.

Peter died 3 years ago. Something with his lungs. Her husband gone, Di sort of vanished herself. She stopped returning calls. I retreated into my little shell, I guess, she told me over the telephone a few weeks ago. Why don’t you come over for dinner.

I got there half an hour late, managing to get a little lost on my bike, in the dark, something that happens way more often than you’d think in a city I’ve been living in for 10 years. In front of her building was a huge sewage truck, covered in blinking lights and thick white steam. Men in jumpsuits were milling about, popping in and out of a nearby manhole. In the dark, noiseless streets of Westmount, the scene was like something straight out of a 1930s expressionist movie – full of ominous. I hurried inside.

Seeing Diane’s face, in her warm house, made everything okay. With her perfect white bob, side-swept bangs and high cheekbones, Diane is more beautiful than I will ever be. My 28’s got nothing on her 80. Taking my jacket, Diane said hey it’s crazy, you know since Peter died this is the first time I’ve had soft jazz on the stereo in the evening. That used to be our thing, Peter and I – jazz at dinnertime. She gave me a smile that was way more than just a smile and disappeared into the kitchen. Would you like some white or red; I have both bottles open.

Standing in the kitchen, by the stove, we raised our glasses to each other and Di said it had been way too long.

I think I was thinking it would get over it, she said, checking the temperature on the pork tenderloin and poking at the baby potatoes roasting on a tray. I told myself I’d get back to seeing people when I got better. Well guess what – it doesn’t happen. You don’t get over it. You only get used to it – sort of. I still wake up in the morning and wonder where he is, she said.

One morning after Peter died, back when I was still looking for signs I was getting better, I realized that one thing about Peter not being around anymore was that I was finally getting to read the front section of The Gazette first, in the morning. After 50 years of having to wait for him to be done with it. Ha, I told myself. It’s all mine now! Then I immediately started bawling my eyes out. But I didn’t want the front section of the newspaper!

What good is that, if you got no one to discuss it with.

We sat at the dinner table, facing each other over lit candles and wine glasses. Looks like I still might know how to do this, Diane said, with a smile. We talked about broken bones (she shattered her elbow racing to catch a green light last summer; I cracked my kneecap running into a wall this summer) and exchanged family news. We talked about her opera passes, theater passes, film club, book club and bi-weekly fitness classes. We effortlessly polished off both bottles of wine.

When the last notes of the jazz album fizzled into the evening air, I noticed Diane didn’t get up to put another record on. Care for some apple crisp, she said. I made it for you.