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Pulvis es et pulvis reverteris

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(From the Latin: “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.”) For those who follow the Christian faith, today is Ash Wednesday, a holy and solemn day marking the beginning of Lent: seven weeks of prayer, fasting, and acts of charity leading up to Easter, the sacred week that commemorates the martyrdom and resurrection of Christ. Realizing what day, it was stirred a vivid memory from when I was about seven years old, visiting my grandmother Carmen in San Salvador. My grandma was a deeply devout Roman Catholic. She loved attending her local parish in her neighborhood, but during special celebrations she would visit an old church in the center of the city. The Church of the Calvary, rebuilt in the 1920s in a striking Gothic style, rose from the ashes of the original 1660 structure that had been destroyed by a massive fire and devastating earthquakes that nearly leveled the city. To many, it was majestic. To me, it was terrifying. I dreaded going there because of a statue of Saint Lucy, ...
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News at Dinner

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Every Saturday evening, the family gathered around the table for dinner. It was almost the only time when everyone was expected to be home. Their lives were so busy that sharing meals together during the week was nearly impossible, so these dinners had become a cherished ritual, one where everyone made a conscious effort to attend. Over time, the tradition grew beyond the family itself. Friends and acquaintances were often invited, until the Saturday dinners became well known for their warmth, laughter, and sense of belonging. This Saturday, however, was different. There was a reason to celebrate. David was marking Lyanne’s return after a year spent volunteering abroad, as well as the remarkable news that she had been offered a teaching position in public health at the university. The house was fuller than usual; the table crowded with familiar faces. It was Lyanne’s homecoming, an evening meant to overflow with stories, playful teasing, and the collective relief that she was finally h...
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A Light in the Night

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Trying to draft the essay due the following Monday had become an impossible task for Lyanne. For the first time, she couldn’t come to terms with the assignment in front of her. Why can’t I concentrate? she kept asking herself, without finding a satisfying answer. Meanwhile, David, her partner, called her downstairs to have supper together. As she descended from her study, he looked at her with concern. “What’s the matter? You look… puzzled,” he said softly. She quickly dismissed his question, explaining that she was struggling to prepare an essay due in three days. As David poured the wine, he reminded her with a smile that going for a walk had always helped her clear her head adding “At least before you went abroad that year. Maybe tonight it’ll do the trick again.” Lyanne drank a little too much wine, but she truly enjoyed the meal David had prepared, nothing fancy, yet perfectly comforting. Pasta with mushrooms and salmon, and of course, copious amounts of garlic bread. They laughed...
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Fear ...

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Fear is an unpleasant, often strong emotion caused by anticipation or awareness of danger.   (Merrian-Webster Dictionary) In August 2025, news from Alberta stated that some books were going to be banned in the schools (Globe and Mail July 10, 2025.) The following month on September 8, 2025, CBC posted the same news “Edmonton Public Schools to assemble a list of 226 books to remove from shelves and classrooms, including well-known works such as "The Handmaid's Tale" by Margaret Atwood,  "The Colour Purple" by Alice Walker, "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" by Maya Angelou, "The Godfather" by Mario Puzo and "Jaws" by Peter Benchley.” The news scandalized many Canadians. It appeared that, for the first time in modern Canadian history, reading certain books was being forbidden, something no one could remember ever happening before. Many Canadians could not believe that a democratically elected provincial government was using its power t...
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There was no choir that evening

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The evening was cold, one of those December nights when the air feels sharpened, almost metallic. David eased the car into the church parking lot, headlights sweeping across a cluster of choir members gathered outside. Their huddled shapes, shivering in the freezing dark, immediately unsettled him. Choir practice never started outdoors. He glanced at Lyanne beside him. She stared at the group as though she’d been expecting something to go wrong. Since her return from Central America, she carried a je ne sais quoi , that hadn’t existed before. Her once bright demeanor now flickered only occasionally. She gave him little to work with, no explanations, no details, just vague responses when he asked how she was doing. He didn’t push, didn’t dare. As he turned off the engine, his thoughts drifted back to the conversation that had changed everything, the night she told him she needed to volunteer in the earthquake zones. Back then, their relationship had come apart from the seams, threads pu...
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It was a December evening...

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          The first signs of the Christmas season had arrived. It was their very first Christmas in their adopted country. Canada was dressing itself in multicolored lights, shop windows glowing warmly, and familiar seasonal songs drifting through the cold air. For this small family of new Canadians, everything about the season felt tender, tentative, and new. The year coming to an end had been a year of firsts, first winter, first home, first language learned on the fly, first Christmas far from everything they once knew. After all, it was the year they had arrived in their adopted country. “A country made by immigrants, for immigrants,” the immigration officer had said as he welcomed them at the airport on that frigid January morning. Now, months later, those words felt a little distant, as if winter itself had stretched endlessly since that day. They were “newcomers.” That was the word people used when referring to them, whether they were within earshot or no...
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Love Under the Shadows of War

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 By the time Carlos Borromeo entered his office that morning, she was already there, waiting for him. She rose as he approached, and when they shook hands, her grip was firm, immediately commanding. “Lyanne Smith,” she said, introducing herself. She had long, reddish-blonde hair braided neatly down almost to her hips. Jerelyn’s gray-green eyes held both intelligence and defiance. She wore no makeup, just a long blue skirt and a traditional local white blouse embroidered at the neckline. Her impeccable Spanish caught him by surprise, clear, deliberate, touched with the faint lilt of an accent that could only be from Spain. For a brief moment, he was silent, caught between admiration and professional composure. Then, regaining his voice, he asked, “Welcome. How can I help you?” Lyanne gave a small, knowing smile, half amused, half challenged, and began to tell her story. She explained that she was a volunteer working with survivors of the earthquake, and that her team, arriving from ...
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