Will this be our last large family gathering? | Canada Voices

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My eldest sister’s birthday was a significant enough milestone to draw my other sister and I back to our hometown of Winnipeg. She turned 70 in October, so it was a good reason to head back from our new homes east and west to celebrate. It was a typical gathering of my family – lots of teasing, chip-eating, wine consumption, raucous card games of Screw Your Neighbor and yelling over one another in an attempt to assert ourselves as the funniest in the room. At the party we proudly performed a tribute number to my sister to the tune of ABBA’s Dancing Queen, expressing our love by singing loudly to cover our inadequate rehearsal time, in a full-throated roast of the guest of honour.

Sweaty and self-satisfied after our performance, I sat back to soak in the party. My sisters, nieces and nephews pushed the dining room table against the wall, fired up a 70s/80s disco mix on Spotify and launched an impromptu dance party. Glasses were refilled, shoes removed. The room felt like it glowed as they danced, arms raised, laughing.

I am younger than both of my sisters. The three of us are scattered now between St. Catharines, Ont., Winnipeg and Edmonton. We don’t see each other nearly as much as we’d like and when we do, it’s often in pairs. The three of us are rarely able to spend time together – too much work, too broke, too many other priorities pulling us in opposite directions.

As I sat watching my family twirl and dip, I heard a voice in my head ask: “Is this the last?” I was shocked by the thought and immediately weepy as I considered the question.

Before this thought, I’d always assumed there would be another wedding, reunion, birthday to pull us back into one another’s embrace. We’re young. There’s time. But how much? In my 20s, 30s and 40s, time seemed so endless. It stretched out, no urgency, no loss. But of course, one time will be the last. Will we know? Will we hold each other tighter when we say that goodbye? Will we say all the things we want the other to know?

The idea of lasts is suddenly looming large for me. Annual lake weekends with my group of forever girlfriends with our set schedule of prime rib on Friday, fish on Saturday, cards, games, wine, inside jokes and trivial annoyances – what happens when there are none of us left to make them happen? Where will those rich memories go to be saved and shared? Does that lifetime of laughter and deep friendship die with us – those laughs and tears simply evaporating as if they never happened?

Who will ensure our grandchildren and great nieces and nephews know how to play Screw Your Neighbor? (You have to follow suit; no leading trump until it’s played with razor-sharp digs at your opponent expected and celebrated.) Will they even know how to keep score?

Who will remember the stories we all know by heart? The ones that define our relationships and history? The times we snuck off to a friend’s cabin as teenagers – all telling our parents we were staying at each other’s houses for the weekend. Ask any one of my forever friends how I got the ugly scar on my leg and they won’t miss a beat. They remember the drunken late-night swim, the rusty nail on the dock and the ill-advised wrapping of the wound with toilet paper (accompanied by a difficult and painful extraction of crusty, hardened toilet paper the following day).

At our family gatherings: Who will know to make Swedish Strips shortbread at Christmas – shortening only, no butter! Who will remember to sing our family grace before special meals? Who will stop the proceedings to ask for an octave lower? The truth is, probably no one. These memories, shared experiences and familial idiosyncrasies are ours alone. Ours to enjoy and savour and then, to let go. So, I savour. I hug tight. I build my own library of beautiful memories and loving relationships. And I am grateful. At last.

Leah Janzen lives in Edmonton.