THE FOLLOWING afternoon, Tom is standing in front of my fireplace, where the wolf picture from Sam’s team rests on one chair and the blue “mean streets” picture from his recruit class sits on another. In front of the blue picture is a small branch, which Tom asks me about.

“It’s from an olive tree,” I explain. “Sam’s family sent it from Greece. It’s for when a hero dies.”

Tom’s eyes widen. “Oh man…”

I nod. “I know. I haven’t let my heart go there yet.”

Truth is, I haven’t let my heart go a lot of places yet. The risk of landmines is way too high.

I walk over and sit in my big chair. Tom sits on the couch.

“Can I ask you a question?” I say.

“Sure.”

“Do you pray?”

“Yes.”

“What do you pray for?”

He tilts his head to one side. “It’s strange you’d ask me that because ever since Sam died, I find that I’m praying differently. I don’t ask for specific things from God anymore. My prayers are less selfish…now I pray for other people, not myself.”

I nod. “That’s how Sam prayed.”

“Really?”

“Yup. He said the exact same prayer every night before going to bed. He just asked God to look after me, his family and friends—and that was it.”

“You and Sam talked about everything, didn’t you?”

“Uh huh,” I reply. “That’s what’s getting me through this.”

Tom looks to the floor then back at me. “Adri, I know how close you and Sam were, so don’t take this the wrong way. But I don’t think your shared past is the only thing that’s going to help you.”

Thinking he’s referring to my support system, I say: “Well, I know all my friends and family and you guys are helping, too…”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh.”

“I just think that you’re going to have to find your own path.”

“But it’s Sam’s path,” I hear myself say, as if finally remembering my lines to a script memorized long ago, “that will lead me to that.”

SOON AFTER Tom leaves, my doorbell rings, sending Sasha into a barking frenzy. Standing on my front porch, with a suitcase in one hand and a container of peanut butter cookies in the other, is this week’s Adri-sitter: Kristy, a friend of mine since junior high.

Over lasagna, I ask for her help getting my photos in order.

“Of course,” she says.

“Tonight.”

Up go both brows. “Are you sure you’re ready to do that?”

“I think so.” Because with Sam gone, who else will do it?

“What’s the rush?”

I shrug. “I just want stuff organized.”

So, over hot chocolate and cookies, Kristy and I devise a plan. I’ll sort the photos into chronological order and she’ll place them into albums.

I soon come across a picture taken of Sam at a New Year’s Eve party back when we were twenty-one. He’s wearing a shower cap, grinning and waving at the camera.

“Geez, do you remember this night?” I ask Kristy.

“Yeah.”

“He got a straighter nose out of the deal, you know.”

Sam had ended up in hospital after getting into a fight in the hotel elevator. Actually, it wasn’t much of a scrap; two guys had sucker-punched him in the face, breaking his nose and shattering his cheekbone. The cosmetic surgeon had asked Sam if, while he was wiring up his cheekbone would he also like the bump filed off his nose.

“Well why not, eh, Adri?” Sam had snorted at me through the bandages.

Killing two birds with one stone was reflective of his life philosophy. The wiring of his cheekbone was a necessary repair; improving the shape of his nose was an added bonus. Maybe grief works like that too. While coming to terms with Sam’s death, perhaps I ought to deal with a few other issues, such as us not having a child…

“Adri?”

I look up.

“Are you all right?” Kristy asks. “You look pretty pale.”

“Did I ever tell you about the oil Sam’s mom rubbed on his face after that surgery?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, she put some sort of holy oil on Sam’s face and when the doctor removed the bandages the next day, the bruising had disappeared—but only where the oil had touched his skin.”

“Oh.”

“You could see a really clear line between the bruised area where the bandage had covered his skin,” I say, “and the healed area where the oil had done its thing.”

Kristy looks rather concerned. “Are you sure you’re OK?”

“Mmm…hmmm…” I reply and resume sorting pictures.

I come to a lakeside photo I’d taken of Sam during a camping trip years ago. I recall the source behind his flushed face wasn’t just a tan, but another afternoon spent with me in our tent. Then I whip past a cute shot of him cleaning the oven in our first apartment, then a picture of him lying on our old futon in his pajamas, wearing glasses and reading a textbook. I flip faster.

“Let’s take a break,” Kristy suggests.

“Soon.”

I come to a photo of me and Sam at my farewell party prior to my seven-month backpacking trip. There are only six months left till I see him again—and I won’t even be picky about the reunion details: eternity, heaven, the afterlife, reincarnation, hell, purgatory or a combination thereof…

Kristy reaches over and removes the photographs from my hands. “That’s enough for today, my friend.”

THE NEXT day, I return to a task somewhat higher on the list of priorities—and less emotionally onerous. The graphic artist wants to discuss with me the wording and artwork for Sam’s headstone. I take Angela along, partly because I value her opinion but also because I no longer trust my own.

“How about a photograph of Sam?” the artist suggests.

I shake my head. “What if some kid draws a mustache on him or something?”

“Uh…you don’t see that very often,” is her reply. As an alternative, she suggests a laser etching of his badge.

I think of Sam doing similar work in heaven that he did here on earth. “That’s not a bad idea,” I say.

She then asks if I have any ideas for his epitaph. I shrug and look to Angela.

“Let’s check with my mom to find out what other Greeks have on their headstones.”

“The closest English translation,” Sam’s mom says an hour later, over lunch at her kitchen table, “is Until We Meet Again.”

“Done,” I say.

Then I resume eating enough meatballs, spanakopita, tirama, bread and olives to sink a battleship. I’m reaching for yet another meatball when Sam’s dad gets up from the table and leaves the kitchen. We hear him crying softly in the living room.

Sam’s mom looks at me. “He is so worried about you, Adri.”

I give her the wave. “I’ll be fine.”

ON NOVEMBER 10th, Stan and his wife, Megan—now eight months pregnant—fly in from Vancouver to visit me. They wake up on Remembrance Day morning to find me sobbing in front of the TV. The two of them squish together on the loveseat while I remain sprawled out on Sam’s perch and we all watch the wreath ceremony at the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa.

How many people will bother to take a moment out of their crazily busy lives to stop for two lousy minutes of silence? Just like the soldiers who had died to secure our freedom, so, too, had Sam given his life protecting the peace we take for granted. Who remembers the dead soldiers and surviving veterans? Who will remember Sam?

Stan asks me what I’m thinking.

“That people don’t appreciate that Sam gave his life serving this goddamn city.”

He and Megan stare at me, mouths open.

“Sam will never be forgotten,” says Megan.

“In the ways that matter,” I reply, “he already is.”

“Adri!” she cries.

Although I know our family and friends and the officers close to Sam won’t forget him, is simply remembering enough? What about asking a few questions? Like why do we need to alarm our homes and workplaces in the first place? Why are there so many break and enters? Why is our legal system more concerned with protecting the rights of the bad guys than the rights of the victims, or those of the peace officers trying to enforce the law? Why do we accept crime and violence in society with a shrug of the shoulders and a flip of the channel? Why does the responsibility for maintaining peace and order fall on the shoulders of police officers, but the real power and money goes to big business? What about the circumstances that led to Sam’s fall—doesn’t anyone else find them unacceptable? Why does everyone else get to go on with their precious little lives, baking and having babies while I’m stuck asking the questions that no one else, it seems, can be bothered to?

“It’s like people have written off Sam’s death as a freak accident,” I say.

“I don’t know what to think,” is Stan’s reply.

“Well for God’s sakes,” I say, “think something.”

All three of us resume staring at the TV until Megan breaks the silence by suggesting we visit Sam.

When we arrive at the cemetery, we find his candles lit and fresh footprints in the snow.

“Sam’s mom and dad have already been here,” I explain. “They come every day.”

We toast Sam with brandy snifters full of sherry then Stan empties Sam’s glass out onto his grave. I watch as the liquid soaks into the snow and think back to the three of us standing beside Sam in his ICU room. How solid is Sam now?

Stan looks at me. “If you need anything, let me know. Sam made me promise that if something ever happened to him, I’d take care of you.”

“He said that?” I ask.

“A few times, actually.”

I drink the rest of my sherry. “Everybody wants to help me by phoning or sending a card or dropping off food. But as grateful as I am for all the support, what I really want is assurance that Sam’s death wasn’t in vain.”

“People help you in ways they know how,” Megan says.

“But I can only eat so many cookies! What I need is help solving the problem.”

“Is Sam’s death a problem to be solved?” Stan asks.

I nod toward the white cross marking his grave. “You’re goddamn right it is.”

Megan places a hand on my shoulder. “Adri…”

I turn to Stan. “You’re an investment banker—do you know of anyone who could handle my finances?”