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I've come home to mothers once again. I was here six month ago and got a couple of weeks to re-root myself. Actually, I'm house sitting my nieces place and grateful for it. There is a photo of my brother, Daniel at my mothers' living room. It has been there for many years now. My brother died over twenty years ago. He was the proverbial good brother to all and the good son to my parents. I can't say that about the rest of us siblings.

My brother was an honest person maybe even an idealist. Not your-run-of-the-mill railing idealist but a calm, thoughtful, and considerate idealist. He loved the great outdoors, I know because he used to go for hikes all the time. He wondered the great land we inhabit, looking for watch ever would catch his eye and looking for that great fishing hole. My brother the solitudes and would even walk just a little bit off from the rest of the pack. Usually, it was just a bit ahead of the pack and always with an eye for something.

Daniel was a professional archaeologist and he loved the old sites. There was something about his fascination with the rocks, the landscape, and what lay beneath the moss. He would take out his field knife and cut a small square into the moss and see the condition of the topsoil. It was always just a peek, a disciplined peek. He would never allow himself to get carried away even if he did find an artifact. He was made that way, with integrity that was beyond question.

There is a black and white photograph of my brother Daniel at my mothers place. It is a bust shot with Daniel looking dead on. He is wearing his eyeglasses and it is in no way poised. Actually he is still straightening or guiding his front hair to one side. He looks impassive but with an unsmiling expression.

Below that photograph is the bust painting of Jesus, where he has dark wave hair. The painting is also not in color, the one where Jesus looks into the distance and somewhere into the clouds. That painting that is in many places.

I've also noticed that the plant nearby has died. I used to tend that plant, as late as six month ago. It used to suffer for drought and I've rescued it many times. I saw it had finally and fatally withered. Yet, there is sat neglected in death as it was in life. As I recall that plant has been there at least twenty years. Then my sister Annie came in to see mom. She noticed the dead plant and cleaned it out. There by there as in my mother's living room. My mother has moved three times in that period but always with the plant. The plant used to remind me of my deceased brother since it was new at the time of his death.

Then there is a humble glass work of art on a wooden pedestal. It comes from the Government of Quebec to award an individual for efforts to bring an environmental effort. It was awarded to my brother post humorous. He would have received it in person had he lived a few month after. It rests on a cluttered Armour and below the two iconic images.

Together those things remind of a humble little shrine. Without the history, one may not see the connections and they would be meaningless. You need the eye to put them together and understand the significance of all that. Out of that cluttered landscape there are fascinating artifacts to be found. You remember a person and want to pay tribute.

Learn more about this author, Jobie Weetaluktuk.
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