Christmas Eve. A warm, silent snow falls in the darkness of a small prairie town. A town centered with one strip mall, two barbers and three bars surrounded by houses and beyond that, farmland.

At this hour, sixty-two year old Henry, single father and the town’s longest serving barber is closing. He takes off his smock, places it neatly on a worn brass door hanger beside his chair. As it happens each and every Christmas Eve, he turns towards the front and expects Madeline to be at the till counting money. It’s been ten Christmas’s and he still yearns for her embrace, flowery perfume, raspy voice, sharp wit, infectious laugh. A dull throb perches on his shoulders as he dresses for the cold. He reaches for the back door then remembers the gift. The one he brought last spring when prices on winter items were cheap. It’d been wrapped for months with wrapping he found on sale in July. Habits he’d learned from once having to count each penny and having little during the great depression. In the back room, he grunts as he moves a chair and lifts a loose floorboard. His secret hiding spot. A last resort to hide gifts from his far-too-curious son. Then it was out the door.

At a street lamp at the furthest reaches from town center Henry’s son, ten-year-old Wayne waits. He’d just walked the seven blocks from his sitters, in anticipation of his dad’s getting home and allowing the opening of at least one gift as was Christmas Eve tradition. Wayne stands at the streetlamp beside his house staring up into the kaleidoscope created by the snow falling through the light above him. He loved doing this and only when conditions were perfect: at night, the temperature just below freezing, low clouds, no wind, and the snow has to be falling in large flakes. And always with some trepidation: he was sure his friends would think he was crazy. But these moments made him feel good, warm.

Sitting in the idling car Henry’s mind wanders…

Madeline gets into the car. “We’re late! Let’s go, you know Wayne will be
waiting. What’s wrong?”

“I forgot to get the gift. Damn it!”

“Is it in the hiding spot?”

“No, I forgot to buy it.”

“I reminded you many times, not on me.”

“What will we get him?”

Madeline pulls out a small wrapped gift. “Always prepared.”

“Oh thanks. Saved my skin again. Did you mean to give him that?”

“Bought it for last year, remember, you misplaced the gift, but found it last second?”

“Oh yes.”

A car horn wakes him. As he drives through the intersection he looks over to the empty seat and smiles.

Henry steers the car through the maze of the new subdivision. His shoulders stop throbbing and he smiles again to see Wayne under the light, jumping up and down.

Azure (c) by DC Lessoway

ever divining abyss
paragon of freedom
singular viewpoint does ordain

those feet firmly mucked
with iron resolve
optimism their raison d’etre
perceive endless warm days

as those ungrounded toes
hesitant, ambiguous
gleefully seek clouds
morose climes

a blue sky is there
our perception
finds its true

Photo and poem (c) 2015 by DC Lessoway

path (c) DC Lessoway

Will you look hitherto
seek regret, for this juncture?
Will you look forth
in dread, dismay, perhaps
death lurks there?
Will you hesitate,
stuck fast, unable to see
a path laying there:
planted in the soil,
written in the stars.
Then unyielding, unrelenting
time, prods you on, forming your
path. Regardless of whether
resolve seizes your heart, bliss
boys your frame, or
grief daggers at your soul.


Photo and Poem (c) 2015 by DC Lessoway


A final toast,
to the buzzing summer
spent strolling cobblestones,
admiring religiosity-soaked oeuvre
in stone, marble and pigment.
The affect, impression upon my eyes,
my heart, lies further to this soul’s
understanding of the grater humanity,
rather than doctrine, dogma.
No matter, here, having
emptied my glass, perhaps
another before ending the evening.
Allow the sublime images, aromas, flavors
imbue my long-term memory; for
instant recall, a tool of repose, possibly
escape from the mundane, the everday.


photos and poem (c) DC Lessoway


as the fog of grief
descends, ensconces and detains
what drives the heart
to choose bearing
all while the soul, sundered
is intent on any refuge
any simple escape
its ramshackle carriage
riding muddied ruts of
an unchanging course
pulled by the four horses
of denial, guilt, anger, sorrow
driven to exhaustion, then,
as they fall, one by one
they are replaced
by depression, hope, acceptance
three infinitely stronger horses
directing the carriage towards
better roads, healing
out of the shadows
back into the light


poem and photos by DC Lessoway

I have nothing but gratitude for our life.

In late 2010 I was laid off, and for a year it was a frustrating search for a job. One of the lowest times in my life, I must have sent out 50 resumes a day, applying to any job I could. Every rejection hurt, and I begun to think I wasn’t going to find a job.

Poor Marina, she worked so hard to keep our head above water. It was a far more difficult time for her as we scraped and had to make some very hard sacrifices to keep the lights on and a roof over our head.

Now, here we are and I wish to express a profound gratitude for my wife, a rewarding job and all we have as we move into our new home that we will own!

There is one more story I want to add that I believe shows there is always greater things a play:

When I first met Marina. I was living downtown Vancouver near English bay. The apartment number was 905. After we married, we moved to an apartment and that number was 3505. Then I lost my job, and as I was striving to find a job, the owner wanted to sell the apartment and we had to move. So we found a place in North Vancouver. The apartment number? 509. The reverse of 905. I suppose a coincidence. Then I found a great job and while we planned to keep renting, we finally decided to buy a place. So the search was on.

During our search, we were driving out to Port Coquitlam to look at a townhouse. I, following my usual route to work, took a turn I shouldn’t have and we ended up in Coquitlam. I said since we’re here, let’s look at this building I really liked. We went there and they first showed us a place on the 28th floor and it was okay, but not what we where looking for. Then we looked at the floor above and fell in love, made an offer and we get the keys tomorrow! Well, it wasn’t as easy as that of course, there is a certain person I want to strangle who put us through a lot of needless stress, but I will let that go, as we can’t wait to move in!

But, there is one more thing. The suite number. It is 2905. How about that! I like to call it our 2nd 905, the number we had when we first met and fell in love.

I harken back to what I whispered to my wife as we were introduced as man and wife on August 8, 2008: “We are going to have a great life.” And we are!



Name:LISSOWAY, FREDERICK Initials:	F Nationality:	Canadian Rank:	Private Regiment/Service:	Queen's Own Cameron Highlanders of Canada, R.C.I.C. Age:	37 Date of Death:	30/03/1945 Service No:	M/39774 Additional information:	Son of Tom and Mary Lissoway, of Danbury, Saskatchewan. Casualty Type:	Commonwealth War Dead Grave/Memorial Reference:	XIX. D. 13. Cemetery:	GROESBEEK CANADIAN WAR CEMETERY
Initials: F
Nationality: Canadian
Rank: Private
Regiment/Service: Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders of Canada, R.C.I.C.
Age: 37
Date of Death: 30/03/1945
Service No: M/39774
Additional information: Son of Tom and Mary Lissoway, of Danbury, Saskatchewan.
Casualty Type: Commonwealth War Dead
Grave/Memorial Reference: XIX. D. 13.

To my father who served in WWII and his brother who never made it back. Lest we forget.