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Knowing she didn't have much longer to live, my sister planned her wake from her hospital bed. It would be in her garden in Halifax, where terraces and lawns swept down to the Northwest Arm, an inlet of the sea.

Give a party for your friends just before your own death? No thank you. The very idea distressed me. How would guests be expected to react? Pretend it was a normal summer event with flowers in bloom, blue skies overhead and sailboats en route to a bigger ocean, a metaphor for what was happening to her?

Four years younger than me, she was, at 77, still lively, beautiful and intelligent. She was the author of books about children and a journalist. Always possessed of a laugh that sent ripples of joy around the Earth every day, perhaps she now thought her own wake would do something similar.

Good at organizing, she planned all the details for an afternoon party held in early July last year. A large tent would be erected on one of the side terraces. She would invite 50 or 60 of the friends she most wanted to see before making her final journey. Caterers would provide finger food. Waiters would serve champagne. And everything would be as glorious as she could possibly arrange it, which is the way it turned out — almost, but not for me.

An ambulance brought her from the hospital. Nurses made her comfortable in her wheelchair near a corner of the tent. Bits of tubing that dripped life into her were concealed under folds of clothing. A large teak garden chair was placed next to her so friends could take turns sitting and speaking their farewells.

Her long flaxen hair had been swept up to its usual position. Her lipstick matched the deep pink of her jacket and the roses surrounding her. The sun shone brilliantly, sailboats floated by on cue and seagulls made only muted cries.

So there she sat, hands folded in front of her, talking to her friends. She smiled and laughed her infectious laugh as if she was at a picnic.

I walked about, sipped champagne, nibbled on smoked salmon and tried to pretend this was all quite natural. Why not have a party with your friends before you die, instead of letting them party together afterward? Be there with them, let them hear you laugh and remember you that way. I was almost persuaded, despite my earlier misgivings, until something happened.

A brother-in-law had come up from New England for the occasion, bringing with him a small ukulele. Without prior announcement, he made his way through the crowd toward my smiling sister, accompanied by a nurse who played the accordion. They paused occasionally so everyone could hear and understand what they were playing. It was this:

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

"You make me happy when skies are grey.

"You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.

"Please don't take my sunshine away."

At that point I lost it. I quickly had to retreat alone to the safety of the house. I looked out, as well as I could through tear-filled eyes, at a garden scene that had become surreal.

Jocelyn died a few weeks later on Aug. 13. Only a year later did a different garden scene in another place help restore some of my lost balance.

Every summer my partner and I throw a croquet party in our Sackville, N.B., garden. This year, my visiting granddaughter from Ontario played the violin when the game was over. At 13, she is possessed of a rare inner grace for one so young. She looks with composure and acceptance at an adult world around her with not a hint of adolescent brashness.

The weather was perfect, with flower beds drenched in colour, hummingbirds finding their way to a feeder and the game itself happily but never too earnestly played.

At the end of the afternoon, with 30 guests sitting on the lawn under great trees, Claire went into the house to bring out her violin to play a piece by Belgian composer Charles-Auguste de Bériot. She smiled and gave a little bow before placing the instrument under her chin and holding up her bow to signal her start. The seriousness of her intent brought idle chit-chat to an end. Nature stood still. We could have been in a concert hall.

There she stood, my youngest granddaughter, framed against a blue sky. The occasional passing cloud provided a halo for her long fair hair, pulled into a ponytail.

Playing unaccompanied, she started softly at first but always with confidence. She was so focused on what she was doing, so absorbed in the music, the line of melody, the sweetness of tone, the sureness of touch. By the time she got to the end of what could only have been a four-minute piece, every surprised listener took a large breath before erupting into applause.

Ready at last to believe that my private world was regaining its balance, my tears this time were of happiness. Jocelyn's spirit and Claire's were now inseparably joined.

Arthur Motyer lives in Sackville, N.B., and is the author of The Staircase Letters.

Illustration by Lehel Kovacs.