People are strange and wonderful beings. It is amazing that you can know someone—for however short a time—and they can have the most significant impact on your life, more than family or friends or any mentor. You may see wisdom and grace in the wrinkled faces of your grandparents, and joy and vitality in the youthful faces of your peers, but I believe the most surprising emotions and experiences are the ones you cannot see, behind the smiles of the strangers you pass every day, stuck in a routine that prohibits you from seeing anything more.

I did not know him well. He had gone to my high school two years before, and he lived only three blocks from my house in our small town, but in the years I had known him all we had ever exchanged were passing glances and I remember once we had traded names. I doubt he even remembered mine, seeing as he was two years older, and in high school he was a football jock, and I most definitely was not. My mind was stuck in the fantasies of the worlds created by authors such as Melville and Dickens, while he bathed in the spotlight of his graduating year and minded nothing but football and scholarships.

His name was Ryan Felder. All I could remember of his physical appearance were his pale blue eyes that conveyed innocence not usually related with such confidence, and his striking light blonde hair that would normally darken in the early years of childhood. His stature was tall and muscled, like that of so many football players, with a slight hunch not a soul would question when they saw him tackle his opponents on the field. Ryan graduated on a football scholarship with the Mustangs at the University of Western Ontario, but after a year of school he decided that it was not what he wanted to do. A few months after quitting university, he joined the Royal Canadian Air Force.

Ryan was deployed to Afghanistan in 2009. He came home in a casket in early 2010 after being killed by an Improvised Explosive Device. As is the custom in most small towns, especially for a death as unexpected as his, echoed by the fact that he fought for our country, his funeral brought together every citizen from every walk of life, even those from surrounding counties. The town was empty, every gas station, store, and even clinics abandoned except for the church, which was packed to the hilt. Ryan’s casket was closed, for the state of his appearance was too mangled and torn. As I said, I did not know him well, but myself and others who knew him less than me cried for him and for his family. His funeral, though as ceremonial as it was, would turn out to be one among few I would never forget.

I was seventeen then, and could not imagine what it would possibly be like to be dead two years after graduating high school. I had found my way quite early to the service and had gotten a seat practically at the front near his family and friends. Each pew had been dressed with purple flowers wrapped in silver ribbons to symbolize the school colours of the Western Mustangs. His jersey was promptly displayed at the front alongside his high school football jersey. In the center was a picture of Ryan in his air force uniform. The saddest part was that his blonde hair and blue eyes made him look three years younger, and all who dared to gaze at the picture with glistening eyes would inevitably fill their hands with tears and cries for the loss of someone so young.

It became evident that Ryan’s father had passed away before his son had, and that in itself was a blessing. But I had never seen his mother before and so I hadn’t a clue as to which sobbing relative she was. My parents spoke quietly to each other over my right shoulder, praying for his mother and wishing ill on those who contributed to Ryan’s death. I figured I’d console my sympathies with the middle-aged woman beside me, whom sat unbelievably silent without a tear on her cheek. She didn’t appear to be there with any of the mourners next to her and so I politely leaned over and said:

“How well did you know him?”

She looked up gently, her face absent of any emotion, and replied, “Quite well,”

“Oh,” I paused to see if she would say anything else, and then resumed. “I went to high school with him. He graduated before me. Actually this is my final year.”

She had her eyes focused on the front of the church, and it took her a few minutes to answer. “That’s nice.” is all she said.

I nodded and focused my attention on the young man at the front, who was a former teammate of Ryan’s in high school.

There were an exceptional amount of people who went up and talked about their experiences with him. Many were his former football jock friends, who laughed about old times and marvelled at Ryan’s ability to punt the ball an unexplainable number of yards. There were lots of cousins, aunts, uncles, and even his high school sweetheart, but his mother never seemed to be called to speak. I figured maybe she was too upset and drowned in anguish and sympathies from neighbours to spare a few words for her son until the priest called upon one Mrs. Felder.

I grazed over the crowd waiting for a woman to rise with smudged mascara, a black skirt, and one of those veils that covered half of her face with mesh like chicken wire. To my surprise, the middle-aged woman on my left, with a little black party dress covered by a shawl, untouched make-up, and nothing covering her face but a placid expression, rose from the pew. As she made her way towards the alter I felt like a complete idiot for asking her if she “knew him well.” Of course she knew him well, she was his mother! But I hadn’t known that before and I eased away my foolishness with that notion.

Mrs. Felder stood unmoving as she calmly spoke of her son’s life. For a moment the throng of attendants became so captivated by the woman’s strength that they ceased their tears. She spoke so clearly and lovingly; it appeared as though the walls listened to her silky voice and the stain glass windows provided rays of light from the noon sun as a spotlight on the woman’s words. No one judged her love for her son, for she did not cry from her eyes but her words seeped in sorrows from an internal mourning of a part of her that would forever be lost. Her posture spoke to her experience, and as suddenly as everyone had seemed to forget they instantly remembered that she had experienced this exact same process a few years before, at her husband’s funeral. Then she had been a blubbering wreck, and she wasn’t shy about her regret for not being strong for her son. Now, without the need to be strong for her son, she was in no danger of breaking down in front of this group of gathered mourners.

After the delivery of her son’s eulogy, the memorial abruptly ended. Mourners shared their sympathies with the grieving mother and departed. Those who remained were family, friends, and neighbours caught up in chit-chat. Mrs. Felder quickly brushed off those who bade their condolences, but oddly enough she kept her gaze on me. I thought that maybe I regarded myself too highly for my conversation with her had been but two replies and she hadn’t a reason to pay attention to me, but soon after her family had retreated to her house for lunch she casually made her way to me.

“You knew him, my son?” she asked softly, startling the wits out of me as I waited alone for my parents on a pew near the entrance of the one-room church.

I turned to face her and nodded, “Yeah, I guess. Not very well,”

She shook her head. “That’s not important. I just wanted to know, besides football and high school and serving, what was my son like?” She did not let me reply before she added, “I mean, from an outsider’s view, as one who only spoke to him a few times—you did speak with him, right?”

“Um, yeah, I guess.” I thought of how I might answer her question when I remembered a time I had spoken with Ryan. “Your son, he told me to never let anyone judge me for reading books all the time. He said they might come in handy one day.”

The tale was true and seemed to lighten the air around the broken lady. During the whole service not one expression had crossed her face until now, as she smiled at me. “That’s very nice.” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Andy. Andy Tate.”

“Andy, thank you.”

Again I nodded and she left the church without another word.


The widowed mother took a turn for the worse after her son’s funeral, a turn we all thought was impossible for such a strong woman. Nevertheless, she became consumed by her sorrow. Still, no one saw her cry. Around town people began to call her the “Blue Woman” for she was said to stay at home week after week and cry over her son’s pictures and forgotten items. She was no doubt depressed. If you were to cross her path in town, she would converse with you for she was never impolite, but she refused to look into anyone’s eyes. I witnessed her descent from a prized woman with impenetrable strength to downtrodden mother upholding the gossip of her peers.

Her son was awarded the Medal of Bravery by the RCAF, but what she saw at her door was a man in uniform bestowing her with a medal that should be worn by her son, and forever failing to reach his grasp six feet below ground.

I was astounded that the mothers, with happy, healthy children and loving husbands, even thought of telling Mrs. Felder to “get over it.” In so many words, that was their message. Even in a small town people are cruel. It didn’t surprise me the woman locked herself up in her house. Her world, her everything, the husband of her youthful wishes and the son of her motherhood dreams, were gone and her home was not a home but a reminder of the pain and hardship she fought every day. Everything she had was so suddenly ripped away. Maybe people believed that because she had moved past her husband’s death, she should be able to do the same after her son’s death. But they forgot that when Mr. Felder died she had Ryan to live for, and now what did she have? In their harsh utterings and ruthless rumours they seemed ignorant of the bond between mother and child and that no parent should live to see the demise of their own.

I act as if the seventeen-year-old me had all these convictions and opinions but in truth at the time I did not. It was in the following years that I came to look back on Ryan’s death and the civil tragedies that followed. I cared so much in later years because of an event that occurred one night when I received a phone call from the “Blue Woman”.

In a fluster of words bestowed by Homer’s perfected Iliad, it truly was a rude awakening when my mother came to my bedroom door, stating there was a woman on the phone for me. Remembering the drizzly Sunday, I often laugh at the fact that I had rather read a story conceived centuries before Shakespeare’s first inhale, than talk to a girl on the phone. For all I knew it could have been the love of my life, but I wasn’t grateful, I was tempered with the fact that I had been abruptly parted from the mystical events of the Trojan War. Yet, to my complete and utter surprise, the voice on the other end was familiar and soothing, like that of a mother’s touch—ever present even after that mother loses her child. Mrs. Felder was quick to apologize for disturbing me so late, but wasn’t hesitant in stating her reason for calling.

“Andy? Hello, I’m sorry for my bad luck with the hour but I just have a favour to ask of you.” She paused, sighed with the weight of the world on her breath, and continued. “I was wondering if you could—after school that is—if you could come over and do some yard work for me. I mean with Ryan—you know, with my son not around anymore nothing’s ever going to get done.” She paused again, and continued “If it’s alright with you—and your parents of course. It’s just… I need… please? You don’t have to, but—”

Her sentence trailed off in a hopeful note and I found it hard to think of reason why I should decline. I was surprised the woman who spoke so little a few months ago at the funeral could ramble on for so long. I accepted her offer ensuring that I put a positive tone in my voice. I didn’t want her to think I was accepting the job because I felt sorry for her, although admittedly I did feel at least a little sorry.

Mrs. Felder gladly thanked me and hung up.

I showed up at Mrs. Felder’s doorstep the following Saturday afternoon. The yard was clearly unkempt, with the first leaves of October strewn across the lawn—which seemed to have not been mowed all summer—and dead or overgrown plants corrupting the façade of the edifice. The mailbox attached to the wall next to the front door was overflowing with junk mail and condolences and letters dating back to the previous spring. I rang the doorbell, which was the only thing not falling apart or decaying on the front porch.

An eye peaked out from one of the side windows beside the door. Its expression was concerned then joyed as it realized who was ringing. Mrs. Felder opened her home to me, and in that moment I believe a switch went off inside her head, fishing her out of the depths of despair and welcoming her back to reality. I knew this because she greeted me as anyone else would; a simple hello, she shook my hand, and then she told me where the garden shed was and gave me the key. It was a short interaction but it was so normal that I did not see the grief or the strength I had seen months ago at Ryan’s funeral. She was just a human being, the same as the neighbour next door to her, the same as the next, and the same as me.

I came to her house for the next few weeks late into fall. I raked the leaves off her front lawn once every week, and sometimes she would sit on her front porch and watch me. It wasn’t really unusual, but more like a mother watching her child play and making sure they don’t hurt themselves. Often she offered to get me something to drink, but for some reason I always denied her offer. It was like I didn’t want to trouble her, not because she couldn’t perform the task, which she was very capable of, but I think I still took pity on her. I chastised myself for thinking that way. After all those months of grieving I don’t believe the woman wanted any more sympathies. So the next time she offered me a drink I accepted, and it made a little smile creep across a face that had been so monotone in expression for weeks.

When Thanksgiving arrived in mid-October I invited her over to my house to carve the turkey with my family. Mrs. Felder kindly declined, stating she wasn’t ready for big gatherings of people yet. She did, however, ask if I would like to come over for dinner one night by myself. At first my adolescent mind took the request as a little awkward and weird, to want to have a teenage boy over by himself for dinner, but then I remembered that for three years her and her son shared dinner alone together after Mr. Felder’s death. I thought I’d pay her the courtesy of human company for one night, so I agreed. So foolish was I to think that it was me who was being courteous to her.

It was Devil’s night when I went over to the widowed mother’s house for dinner. I walked from my house along the pumpkin-smashed sidewalks to her door. Mrs. Felder opened the door before I even reached the porch steps, and hurried me inside. She asked if I was cold, and looked down at the thin sweater I was wearing. It was around seven degrees out, but the cold windy fall weather did not bother me. She said Ryan always insisted that he not wear a coat out, and how she always coaxed him into taking one just to satisfy his mother’s conscience.

We sat down at the kitchen table, where two empty plates sat ready for feeding. Mrs. Felder talked more in those few seconds it took her to lay out the food they she had all fall. I kept calling her Mrs. Felder out of respect, but soon she asked me if I would just call her Lisa. I didn’t want to argue with her so I agreed to call her by her first name.

The dinner she had set out didn’t look ultimately glorious. There was a small dish of undercooked frozen vegetables, runny mashed potatoes, and in the center a small pot roast that looked edible. I could tell she had spent most of her time on the roast, and it wasn’t so much the matter of whether it was good or not, but more so the fact that she could be proud of herself for making the effort to cook it. That was fair and well for me. I ate just enough to be polite but just little enough not to be rude. She barely touched her plate, but talked more of Ryan and how he never missed a dinner with his mother after his father passed. I wondered how much she had eaten in the past months since the funeral in June, and took note of how thin she appeared. I played over that conversation in my head and decided it would be rude to mention anything.

Two hours went by, one spent eating, and one spent chatting. All the while Lisa continued to talk about Ryan and looked up at his picture hung on the wall behind me every so often. It was then that she started to compare me to her dead son, and how much I reminded her of him. At first I thought it sweet, but soon it became eerily a sign of her obsessing over his every moment and breath in his life, and I started to become annoyed. For all that is the impatience of youth, I dealt with this talk for quite some time before I said something I would regret deeply immediately after I would say it.

“Lisa—no, Mrs. Felder,” she abruptly yielded her speech, and expressed an alarmed look at the sound of my firmness. Then I said the horrid words, “I’m not him, you know.”

The shock on her face was unequivocal. I thought she might start bawling until her face hardened and then I thought she might slap me. But the woman did neither. Instead she took a deep breath, sighed, and put her hand on my leg.
“No, you’re not him,” she said softly, “But when you lose someone very dear to you, you often try to find someone to replace them. And I know that isn’t the right way to deal with it, but if it gets you through the night then you have to cling to it in the hopes that one day you’ll learn to move on. That’s all, Andy. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Right then and there I thought I might start bawling. I felt like the ass in a room full of mourners. Several times I tried to apologize, but she wouldn’t take it. She said I hadn’t done anything wrong; that there was truth to my words. So I let the topic be and spent the rest of the night in silence.
The day after Halloween I returned to rake Mrs. Felder’s leaves for the week. I felt it was the least I could do after the slip of the tongue I had suffered two nights earlier. But when I rang her doorbell she didn’t answer. I figured she was probably furious with me and did not want to face me, so I went along and got the rake out of the shed. When I finished raking the leaves I decided that I’d do this one for free, as before she had insisted on paying me, so today no pay should be due. I returned the rake to its home and was about to leave, when I heard something break from the kitchen window. I was worried and so I instinctively took the initiative and got the spare key from under the doormat.
What I saw when I entered the house was not what I wanted to see at all. Mrs. Felder lay against the back wall of the kitchen, next to the picture of Ryan that appeared to have fallen and the glass had shattered. She had attempted to put the pieces back together and in the process had cut her hands. Immediately I reached for the phone and dialed nine-one-one. Upon closer examination, I noticed the cuts were extremely deep and an awful thought crept into my mind. Mrs. Felder had no regard for her safety; she did not care if she lived or died. It didn’t appear to me that a woman who cared for herself would scramble onto a pile of glass and try to forcefully fit the pieces together. At most one might try to salvage the picture, but I didn’t see how the glass would matter. Most certainly one would take precautions to dispose of it properly.
As much as I wanted that not to be true, my suspicions were confirmed when she asked me to tell the paramedics she was fine. I told her I could not do that—that she was in rough shape—but she ignored my pleas. When the ambulance arrived I practically had to force her onto to the stretcher. Mrs. Felder claimed it wasn’t necessary, but I had the paramedics help me convince her that it was.
At the hospital the doctor gave her twelve stitches for the most serious cuts, and bandaged up the rest. I sat by her hospital bed and finally came around to asking her what happened. At first she was reluctant, but I could tell she was tired of fighting. She told me she had thought about what I had said, and that made my stomach turn in uncomfortable knots. Lisa was quick to assure me that this wasn’t my fault, and then she continued. That morning she had looked upon the picture of Ryan as she had many times before, and she said she hated it for reminding her every day of the son she had lost. At the height of her grief, she smashed the frame with her fist and it fell to the ground. Simultaneously she regretted the action and fell to the floor, trying to put the pieces back together. Mrs. Felder said she thought by putting the glass shards back together, that maybe she could also put a part of herself back together. All that had gotten her were more scars that required more healing. That, she stated, was the hardest part: healing. You can keep going, you can try to forget, you can move on, but you can’t ever be who you were before. All you can do is pray that the suffering will end—and relapse again and again right back to where you were the moment your son died.
No phrase or sentence seemed appropriate in response so I said whatever came to mind, and that was: “Why now, then? What made you relapse now?”
Her reply was simple, something I did not understand at first. She said, with nothing but air in her words, “November.”
I shook my head and asked, “November? What about November?”
The woman replied, “November is the month Ryan was supposed to come home—alive and back into my arms. But I’ll never get that now, so here I’ll be every November, again and again until the day I die.”
Then to those words, I did cry. Right there in the recovery room of the hospital, a seventeen-year-old boy broke into sobs. When I finally caught my breath, I realized Mrs. Felder had turned her head from me and quietly cried herself. I wanted to comfort her but I was afraid I’d start sobbing again, and so the rational thing for me to do was leave.
I came back to the hospital the next day to check in on her, only to find out that she had discharged herself. When I walked past her house I noticed her car wasn’t there. The only place I figured she’d be was where every mother is when they wish to speak with their dead child.
The cemetery was empty, all but for Lisa Felder. Her bandaged hands were hidden with gloves and the cold coloured the air a misty white where her breath was. Ryan Felder’s head-stone was in the shape of a cross, decorated with military titles and medals. His mother quietly talked to him, telling him what had happened the day before.

She fell silent when she heard me step up behind her. She knew it was me for who else would it be out here in the cemetery on a cold November morning. Mrs. Felder turned to me and said something I did not expect.

“He’s coming home, Andy, I know he is. It’s November, he has to!” she said, and then turned back to the grave. “Please be safe, my precious son, if you don’t come home to me I will come home to you.”

Her last line frightened me and I thought she might be suicidal, until I realized what she meant. She took out a picture of her, her husband, and Ryan all standing in front of their home when Ryan looked about ten. She leaned it against the cross and told her son he was home now.

If it weren’t for the cold bitterly freezing my tear ducts, I probably would have at least shed a few more drops. But Mrs. Felder, with all the strength she had, maintained a rock-solid composure. Once again she turned to me, and said,

“I think I need to let go of November.” And that is what she did.

For the remainder of the school year and over the summer, I kept in contact with Lisa Felder. In the fall I went off to university, and didn’t speak much to her after that. From what I heard through friends and family back home, she was doing exceptionally well. I hoped that was true. There has never been a woman more deserving of happiness than her.

Every November I honour Ryan by donating whatever I can to the veterans and families of Canada’s Armed Forces. When I heard of Mrs. Felder’s death, I personally bought the plot next to her son’s so that they could be buried together.
I often think of her, and how I knew her for just over a year and she is the one person alone that has changed my life the most. I probably would have never met her, had it not been for Ryan’s death—however morbid a thought that may be. But it made me think about the people behind the faces I see every day, and the struggles we all overcome, unbeknownst to anyone else. We are strong, we are human, and we can heal. All we have to do is let go, and say goodbye to our November.