Colours in Her Hands / new novel by Alice Zorn

Here is the information for the launch: https://pulpbooks.ca/events/660420240924

If you can't come, please get the book from your local indie bookstore or library. If they don't have it, ask for it! They should. 

Or order it directly from Freehand Books who will happily send it to to you. https://freehand-books.com/product/colours-in-her-hands/#tab-description

If you must, order it from Amazon.ca, Amazon.com, Amazon.de, Fnac... It is available! 

Reviews for Colours in Her Hands: 

"A moving meditation on love and art and the creative passions and impulses that are so much greater than anyone's disabilities and make us our best selves. An achingly real, compassionate and at times hilarious read, Zorn's novel shreds how we label people and art practices to show how deeply we and they are one. Heartbreaking, uplifting—brava!" CAROL BRUNEAU author of Brighten the Corner Where You Are: A Novel Inspired by the Life of Maud Lewis

"Alice Zorn has placed a singular woman at the heart of a vibrantly coloured world in this beautiful meditation on art and those who make it." CLAIRE HOLDEN ROTHMAN author of Lear's Shadow

"Mina is in my top-ten list of memorable fiction characters. It is fascinating to watch her make sense of the world through her embroidery and fairy tales. . . . a meticulously crafted novel." H. NIGEL THOMAS novelist, poet, essayist, and the 2022 laureate for the John Molson Prize for the Arts

is there room for humour in death?

When someone dies, we get solemn and sad. Of course.

But humour, even black, helps keep us sane. 

Make no mistake, R was devastated when we got the call from the hospital in the night that his sister Jo had had a massive cerebral bleed and was brain dead--effectively dead.
The hospital kept her on a respirator until he and his brother arrived. When they got there, R said they kissed her and talked to her, even though they'd been told she was brain dead. 

He finally leaned close and said in her ear, Jo! Des frîtes et un Coke? Fries and a Coke?  

No response. He looked at his brother and said, She's dead.

Here's a picture of her waiting for just that to arrive: fries, Coke and a club sandwich. Get a load of that diner with frosted glass dividers. She's wearing one of her many hats. We've already spent the day with her and I was getting tired.

no more funny hats

I've been reading some articles on the life expectancy of people with Down Syndrome, a couple of which claim that people with Down Syndrome can live as long as anyone else.
Every doctor or social worker, who ever talked with R about his sister, emphasized that by her early 50s she was already very old. A year ago she had a cerebral hemorrhage. Increasingly she had difficulty walking and used a cane. She wanted a walker and complained of arthritis. She was starting to forget dates--which felt serious because she'd always been the keeper of family birthdays. She was the one who called to let you know when an anniversary or birthday was coming up.

I'm finding it hard to write a post about Jo, whom I called Sue in my blog. We're still looking at the answering machine when we walk in the door because there was always a message. They invariably began, "J'ai quelque chose je veux dire." I have something I want to say. And even though we called her Jo, she always signed off as JoAnn, including her family name. As if anyone else could have stammered that incomprehensible blend of French and Down Syndrome logic. The way she made short work of words she thought too long. Her "diabetes" was "dibète". Not even R, who oversaw her affairs, understood her messages. He always had to call her back to ask what she wanted.

This picture was taken last winter, 2012, when R took Jo to see their mother in her nursing home. Jo is explaining that they're eating a box of chocolates which her mother claims she can't see. (Though she saw well enough to pick up the chocolates without fumbling.) Do you see Jo's concern and affection for her mother?

Look again. Four months later they both died on the same day. Jo was 55, her mother 96. Their urns were buried together. R.I.P.