The Last Taste of the Sea
A final act of service at the edge of a man's life
The call came on June 2nd. The tone in Michael’s voice gave it away before the words did—strained, carrying something heavy.
Daniel… it’s my dad, Leon. He’s not doing well. We don’t know how much time he has left. Can you shuck oysters on Wednesday?
Grief moved to the edges of my heart instantly. I swallowed, steadied myself, and said, “Yeah. Of course.”
I’d shucked oysters for Michael and Suzanne for five years, and Leon was always there—first to approach my table, last to leave. He’d stand at the corner in quiet anticipation of his favourite shell: Malpeque from PEI. By the time most guests arrived, Leon was already four or five oysters deep, a small testament to the man’s love of fine food.
And now I was preparing to shuck oysters for his last meal. The final thing he would taste before choosing medical assistance in dying
I arrived at the Canterbury Foundation, a mix of steadiness and something else, an ache behind my ribs. I was escorted outside to a courtyard where the leaves rustled overhead and a small fountain whispered nearby. After surveying the setup, I carried in my gear: shucking knives, hotel pans, towels, and coolers packed with oysters and ice.
I set up slowly, making sure every movement was deliberate. I folded each towel with care, letting the rhythm of preparation become its own quiet offering. Devotion to set and setting felt like the highest form of respect I could give a man and his family on a day like this.
Suzanne and Michael greeted me warmly, and soon they brought Leon down to enjoy oysters before the guests arrived—first at my table, just like he always was. He sat quietly in his chair, a softer presence than the man who had delivered one of the most endearing speeches I’d ever heard on his ninetieth. He was a true gourmand, and his love of food was matched only by the courage in his spirit and the warmth he carried into every room.
The food table was adorned with his favourite things: cheeses, wines, lobster rolls, and of course, oysters. Suzanne curated a playlist of his favourite songs and played Neil Diamond, Leonard Cohen, and others. Soon the guests began to arrive—familiar faces, each one welcomed into the moment.
After briefly catching up with guests, I offered Leon a tin of Beluga Sturgeon caviar—my offering to a man with impeccable taste. Michael and Suzanne were pleasantly surprised, and though Leon didn’t say much, his eyes widened at the first taste. A warmth radiated through my belly at the sight.
Leon sipped and slurped before he leaned back and gave a quiet signal that he was finished. Michael and Suzanne moved to his sides without a word, lifting his wheelchair and guiding him inside. It was clear what came next. The room shifted. Everything softened. A few moments later, some of the guests were invited upstairs to be with him. Conversations dropped to a hush. People moved with a kind of reverence, as if every step needed to match the weight of the moment.
Suzanne came back out and gave me a small nod—an unspoken cue to serve the last oysters and begin packing up. I finished the tray quietly, placed the final shells on ice, and wiped down the table in slowness. When everything was clean and put away, I let them know I was heading out. There was no need for words. I walked through the courtyard, past the fountain and the rustling leaves, carrying the stillness of the afternoon in my chest.
The next day, Suzanne and Michael stopped by the shop. I’ll never forget the look in their eyes. There was a transcendent form of understanding. We didn’t talk about the details. We didn’t need to. I stepped around the counter, opened my arms, and offered them a warm hug, one human gesture to hold the weight of everything that had passed.
When I think back on that afternoon, what stays with me isn’t the food itself, but the meaning inside the gesture. I didn’t know how to soften the edges of a family’s last meal. All I could do was offer what I knew—steady hands, a quiet presence, and a taste of something he loved. It felt like a small, honest way of honouring a man whose life had been lived with appetite, courage, and heart.