building a legacy in the small moments

May always hits me like a brick wall.

It has been nineteen years since my best friend Emma and I were in a fatal car accident. Nineteen years since the best day ever turned into the worst day ever in a matter of seconds. Despite years of therapy, May always brings a rollercoaster of emotions. Moving through the anniversary of Emma's death, the day she was buried, and her birthday in nine days.

And, because it is life, over the years, many other things have happened in May since my world was turned upside down in 2007. Some years those things have brought celebration and joy. Other times, sadness.

This year was one of those tough years.

Friday, our family said goodbye to Paula Moore. Paula, and her husband Doug, are close family friends.

We have a long history with the Moores. My mom, Doug, my father-in-law Mark, and their friend Carol started their careers together as Management Trainees in the Government of Canada more than 44 years ago. The timing was memorable because my mom and Paula were both pregnant — their daughter Rebecca and I were born three weeks apart. I like to think that is why we have always been kindred spirits.

In those early years, that little group, spouses included, had a lot of fun. Ski trips. Murder mystery nights. Endless laughter. The pictures and stories they carry now are a testament to the kind of friendship you envy. One that, no matter how much time had passed, you could pick up exactly where you left off.

As the kids got older, the fun shifted. Theme nights replaced with birthday parties for the kids. Weekends away replaced with hockey tournaments. The gatherings became less frequent. Yet our families kept crossing in and out of each other's lives. Conversations with Paula were always ones I remembered. She had a way of speaking, a gentleness met with an infectious sense of humour, that put you at ease and made you feel seen.

A proud nurse at CHEO, working with children with eating disorders, she would refer to her patients affectionately as her "girls." She had a gift for bringing levity to serious work. I remember her telling me about a weekly ritual of two chocolate bars. One for her, one for all the girls on the floor.

I remember her talking about "Tina." Justin, whom the Moores had lovingly nicknamed Tina, had met Rebecca while they were away at university. They eventually married, and Paula adored Justin. She would often share this with me, partly because, in a strange twist of fate, I had known Justin ALMOST as long as Rebecca had (Justin and I met in kindergarten). I was at the mall during Christmas break after my first semester of university when I ran into him. He was excited to introduce me to his new girlfriend. I rounded the corner and there was Rebecca. Justin stood there dumbfounded while Rebecca and I were elated, and even more amused to learn that I had known each of them longer than they had known each other.

One of my favourite memories of Paula is from August 2007. The Moores had planned a reunion of their little Management Trainee group to celebrate Carol's 60th birthday.

Grief had made it hard for me to be in social settings, especially seeing people for the first time since Emma had died. I had been using alcohol — a lot of it — to cope. Getting through a gathering without falling apart, knowing that I could not get hammered, felt like a challenge. But Rebecca and I had reconnected after the accident. She had lost a friend when she was younger, and she had been a tremendous comfort in those early days. I knew Justin would be there. My parents and brother would be there. I felt like I could probably manage, at least for a few hours.

I remember walking into Paula and Doug's place. They are both very real, authentic people, and I was met with huge hugs and a lot of love. I did not have to pretend I was okay or recite my rehearsed story. I could just be me. As with any of those gatherings, the night was filled with stories and laughter. It was good for the soul.

All the usual suspects were there, including Keith Campbell. Keith was the oldest son of Mark and Joni, part of the original Trainee group, and had been around my whole life. But something felt different that night. We spent much of the evening talking. As the night wound down, the 'kids' were making plans to maybe head downtown later. As Keith left with his sister Ali, he gave me his number, just in case.

No sooner had the door closed behind him than Paula appeared. She grabbed my hands, looked me in the eye, and announced: "You are going to date Keith Campbell." Her excitement was next level.

I am sure I turned five shades of red. I had not gone to a family birthday party in the darkest stretch of my life looking for a relationship. Especially not with someone I had known my whole life.

But she was right. She saw something in us before we saw it ourselves.

After our first date, Keith and I agreed not to tell our parents. We did not want anyone to get too excited in case things did not work out. When we finally told our families a couple of months later, both of our mothers called Paula. There was a lot of celebrating.

At the wake this week, I shared this story with Olivia, Paula's oldest grandchild. She smiled. "Not only did you date him, you married him!" — exuding the same excitement her Nanny once had.

In the weeks since, through her obituary, at the wake and the funeral, countless memories of Paula have been shared. These are just some of mine. She was humane, intentional, and funny. She loved fiercely and was not afraid to show it.

Whether she knew it or not, she was always building her legacy: in every game she showed up to cheer at, every bedside she sat beside a few minutes longer than she needed to, every extra hug, every glass of wine poured a little fuller so the conversation could go a little longer.

Paula's absence will be felt in every room she would have filled. At the wake, her son Matt shared something that has stayed with me. In the days since losing her, he has found himself still turning to her — still asking, in the quiet, what she would say. And the remarkable thing, he told us, is that he knows. He knows because she was always there. She showed up so consistently, so fully, in all the small moments, that her voice became part of him.

That is the real measure of a life. Not the grand gestures, but the steadiness and dependability.

Paula built her legacy one small moment at a time, and in doing so, she made sure she would never really leave