My mother's was the life of a first generation Canadian, born to immigrant parents on the eve of the Depression…Here is the coat, bright red and merry, that she chose for herself…Her mother once told her you must always have a dark coat: "What if someone died?" But she defied her mother and chose only because she wanted and liked it - something special, frivolous, just for her...Robust and vibrant, almost to the end. This coat is all of that to me, it reflects her spirit...These fibres reflect for me the memory of one who encircled my life. She lives inside of me, integral to my bones. She was my mother.

My father was many things - a WW2 survivor, a husband, a father to three children, an engineer, a pilot, an athlete, an accomplished cook, a gardener, a builder - but a natty dresser he was not. He really took little interest in clothes or what people looked like. He cared more about what was on the inside. He once lectured me about selecting boyfriends and gave an example of a friend who had married "a homely woman with a good heart." ...At his memorial service, my mother said, "If you can measure the wealth of a man by the love that he left behind, then Frank was a very wealthy man."

The caressing waves of time can soften the sharpest edges of grief and transform it into treasured memories. Thank you Mom and Dad for all the love and memories. Loves it! Loves it! Loves it!

This scarf of my grandma's came to me at Christmas 2007, a decade after her death...I always think of my Grandma Kelly in purple or pink, the colours of this scarf. Not anything frilly or lacey or even flowery, just blushing colour. In one of my favourite later-life photos of her, she is in pink from head to toe, sitting outdoors in a wheelchair with flowers across her lap.

My father, in summertime, wore this undershirt…After his death, I wore it as a camisole. He was my last close relative, the last relative who genuinely loved me…When I wore this undershirt I felt a closeness, a connectedness...This undershirt is worn, threadbare and much loved. In giving it to you, I am giving you something of me...I start fresh. I am joyful, ecstatic, excited about new beginnings...I feel "zaftig" (abundant in Yiddish)...Unlike the undershirt, I am not worn, threadbare. However, like the undershirt, in loving, I have become much loved.

My father's death leaves a large empty place...He was always there. Now he is not. It is a hard adjustment…He told us the afternoon of his death that he was leaving us soon…The hat was one he wore the last few years of his life. He wore it when we worked together on the last project - a large shelving unit for the storage of my framed work. He wore it on the last outing we took to the Peace Gardens on the border between the USA and Manitoba. He wore it whenever he went out in the sun.

It smells of your perfume…As I sit here now, I can recall so many times when you were wearing this shirt as we visited - out on the screened porch looking at the lake, you with a glass of your favourite red in your hand, the sun setting across the water, the water causing our laughter to bounce back on us so that it seemed everything around was laughing, rejoicing. How I loved you then and how good it felt to be wrapped in your sisterly love for me...I still love you, Betty, and truly believe that your unconditional love continues to surround me even as I grieve the loss of your physical presence. Until we meet again...

This is the story of two women who were friends for 65 years, and a red suit - only one of the many things these women shared…Beulah had a two-piece suit, a tailored jacket and knee length skirt. Marty loved it. "I think she thought I liked it so much that she gave it to me. And I kept it for years." When asked what happened to the red suit, Marty replies, "I guess I wore it out." The red suit may have worn out but the friendship never did. Beulah was "the sweetest, nicest person I ever met...I'll always think of her and miss her."

These grey corduroy pants were Dad's favourite pair, worn and comfortable, really an extension of his genuine and relaxed nature. The red golf shirt has special meaning for me as it was the shirt I helped him to put on the afternoon we brought him to hospital. In my mind's eye, I see my lovely Dad being held gently by my husband as I slipped this shirt over his head....It was the last piece of clothing of his own he ever wore. The final piece is a raggedy old hoodie...It still smells like his pipe and you can see the burns on the sleeves from when the wind took the ashes from the pipe pot and scattered them about. My father loved to sit outside and smoke his pipe. It was in returning inside that he slipped and fell, starting in motion the events that led to his death...Dad lived a life without judgment, without prejudice, seeking to do right by another and ultimately touching the lives of many...These are the gifts that were Dad's and they live on for us who remember.

My mother loved colourful silk scarves and collected them. She thought of herself as an extremely practical person and mostly she was…This is a way for me to honour her pleasure in things that are not strictly necessary or practical. Life should be about more than survival.