I am not good enough for him, and I don’t say this fishing to be convinced otherwise. It’s the plain truth.

He is a living Old Spice commercial, all impeccable goodness. He kills bugs on-demand and airplanes our son until his legs ache and smells like woodsmoke and knows how to whistle grass and stays out until he collapses building rock walls, restoring clapboard, painting, pruning the roses, refinishing the tiller of a neighbour’s sailboat.

He takes Evan down to the shore for a paddle, sheparding a contrary two-year-old with a 17-foot long canoe on his shoulders. A canoe that he stripped and rebuilt, stretching new canvas over the vintage frame and rubbing it with his palms until it shone. I like that it’s got my skin in it, he says. That I made it like that with my own hands, that it gave me calluses, like a sculpture.

He passes me in the kitchen, pauses for a moment, suspiciously silent behind my back as I chop and simmer. "Hey there, little lady," he says. I turn around and he sports an ear-to-ear grin, hands on his hips. A zucchini is zipped perpendicular into the fly of his pants.

This ten-year-old joke never fails, even though he’s far from the first man to do it. With a carrot. Or a parsnip. Or a Japanese eggplant, best accompanied with an interpretive dance.

This is Justin. The most annoying thing about him: his incessant perfection. Those of you who know him in real-life know exactly what I mean.

Meanwhile, I have a waterbed belly and don’t eat my crusts and look and behave like this in the morning:

How is he doing, you ask? He is still himself. That I mention him rarely here doesn’t reflect the indescribable gorgeousness that is him as my babies' dada. He was born in the wrong era, and thinks computers not much good for anything but wasting time and mooring dinghys.

All this ticky-tapping, you, these never-met friends, unnerve him a bit. It was foreign to him before, but he smiled at it. But now that I’m writing through such potent trauma I’m taking liberties, sharing our intimate life. I’ve kept him under this radar a little, not wanting him to feel any more spotlit than he already does.

He is steady and unfailing, as he has always been. He is my better three-quarters.

Next week we go to rest our son, our Liam, among a watery everglade that is heaven to us both. Just the two of us in the mist at sunrise, in the canoe. I dread it, fear accidentally seeing what’s inside the urn. I don’t feel strong enough to live through that moment without falling into pieces, throwing myself into the depths after him.

You can close your eyes, he says, holding my hand. I’ll do it for both of us.

He is my love. That’s all.

He is versatility, strength of both character and muscle. The physical world seems to extend naturally from him as the gravitational centre, as though he owns it and it owns him. Implements to help him move through that world are extensions of his limbs, unfailing partners. He is at home with them, and anyone with him is calmed by the grace and respect of his handling.

At first, some kinds of people think he doesn’t have much to say. Most of the time I think he prefers it that way.

I’ve never met anyone so constant. To those he loves, and to himself in that he is always Justin in the purest, most concentrated, most uncomplicated form. He is a soul immediately recognizable as being full of truth and authenticity.

He kicks it on the dance floor. Rare these days, but unforgettable.

The beard, lord bless it, the beard. Rare these days, but unforgettable.

His relishes his eccentricity, enjoys surprising those who take him to be shy.

He is understated, without ego. He has nothing to prove. He is selfless and thoughtful and without vanity. He is focused and quietly unafraid in everything he does (except at his wife’s corporate christmas parties).

He doesn’t play games, and is bewildered by those who do.

He indulges my hopelessly cornball passion for halloween (and secretly likes it too).

He doesn’t need people to treat him a certain way.

He exasperates me with his upstandingness, makes me feel hopelessly flawed. I am a bigger person thanks to proximity and osmosis.

He is my son’s father, and a completely equal and inspiring parent. As overwhelming as it can be, I never want this new road to distract me from us, make me forget what I treasure about him, just him.

He was born in the wrong era, but I’m glad it happened to be mine.

It’s settled. We’re countrified. We go blackberry hunting, sand castle building. A snake named Simon lives in our basement. It’s almost time to stoke up the woodstove again. I’m hungry for the scent of it.

And perfection? Justin in his boots. Something about it reminds me of his constant usefulness, his industrious ethic. He is of such substance, quiet and smiling and steady.

It's an irresistable sight. The country man’s stiletto heel.

If men wore heels.

Which some do.

You get the idea.

Justin is forever spoiled. Nothing else in his career will ever quite measure up. Eight seasons as a ski patroller at Cypress Mountain is what did it.

Finding the patrol hut deserted after a day of skiing, I’d go inside and wait for Justin while he wrapped up the day. Before long I’d hear the growl of the snowmobile and the tramping of ski boots, and a larger-than-life crew would rumble through the door in a gush of wind and snow – beards, helmets and like-mindedness making them almost indistinguishable from one another.

I always wished I could freeze those moments. Seeing Justin so satisfied with his place in the world. Heavy, Cypress-brand ‘elephant snot’ snow clinging to his boots, soaked to the skin, flushed with work, relishing the day. And in such good company.

These guys were pretty intimidating. Deeper reserves of energy and strength than I’ve ever seen in anyone. Amazing skiers, hard workers. Affectionately tough on each other, like brothers. I always felt safe for Justin, being with them.

How was your day? I’d ask.

Busy, he’d say. The usual broken wrists and knees, two head injuries, a broken back. And some kid went off the back side and got lost, so we went after him and found he’d gone off a cliff and got stuck in a tree well. He’s okay though. Then we did some avalanche control, and after that this lady hit a tree and part of her jaw kind of came off. The ambulance had to come up three times.

And he’d be smiling. Always smiling. Then he’d say, How was your day?

And I’d say, Not bad. Another one of those long meetings.

I wish Justin could be a ski patroller forever. That’s what he is. That’s what they all are. They go on to do other things – police officers, doctors, or fire fighters like Justin will be. But somehow, those things are all second choices to a true calling.

Justin doesn’t talk about it much. Cypress goes on without him, and that’s not easy to hear. He doesn’t want to know that the spring was the best ever, that Skychair still sways precariously in high winds, or that someone’s posh new skis got duct-taped to the ceiling again. Or that his locker now belongs to someone new.

That’s what seems to happen when people leave – they can’t go back, not even just a little. The memories are just too sweet.

Every time I imagine this baby, I imagine him as a tiny version of Justin. Long lashes, big brown eyes, dark skin and lots of hair.

I imagine he'll be able to describe the scientific properties of various types of clouds, grow a formidable beard in thirty seconds flat, spot wildlife from miles away and quietly inspire confidence and admiration in almost everyone he meets without ever being aware of it.

A miniature Justin. That would certainly make the transition to the baby cult easy, wouldn't it?