Brigette,

You are welcome.

Song of Myself?

The way you described your father’s study:

“Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes..”

“And that a kelson of creation is love.”

And these lines reminiscent of his gifts to you:

“You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,

You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.”

And his conclusion,

“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,

And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another,

I stop somewhere waiting for you.”

So appropriate and fitting, what a testament to a childhood shared with a father who would put such work before you.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

My second eldest cousin was celebrating her 70th birthday in Victoria, BC.

I took my 92-year-old recently widowed Dad in his wheelchair. We lost Mum a scant four months prior.

When we were about to load up to leave, I had set the brakes on his chair, facing the garden which was alive with colour.

When I returned, he said to me, ‘You know Son, it’s going to be awful hard to leave all of this behind.”

We were in a rush to make the ferry back to Vancouver.

Just as the announcement came on for people to return to their vehicles, Dad informed me, “Jesus son, I gotta take a goddamn ‘p*ss!”

Boom, into action. Unload the wheelchair from the trunk. Help him get in.

Running/pushing across traffic to get to handicapped washroom which wasn’t big enough for him and his wheelchair (Dad was 6'4" and still weighed over 210)…I had to prop him up. Do the business.

Return to chair to storm across traffic as horns blared and announcements requesting car blocking traffic in lane 10 to move or be moved.

Got him in. Threw wheelchair into back seat. Got on the ferry second-to-last car.

He looked at me as we both exhaled. “Thanks for doing that for me, Son.”

I patted his enormous paw of a hand, “You’d do it for me in a heartbeat, Dad.”

No words, just a nod of his head. That was enough for his generation.

Dad passed away the next night.

I drove like a demon to make it there. But I got up the stairs just as the inhalator-defibrillator Fireman disconnected and stood up and looked down at my Dad lying there on the floor.

After they left, I was alone with him.

I cradled his head. Told him he was gone. I whispered to him what little I knew from the Tibetan Book of the Dead about not being afraid.

I waited until the Ferryman came.

I pushed Dad out on the gurney to the hearse. All I had to give him was a $20, we have to pay the Ferryman, and so I told the Driver who Dad was, and that I’d appreciate it if he could take care of him on this, his last ride.

Watched as the red lights glowed off into the distance of that dark night.

After hours of phoning relatives the next day, I just couldn’t stay at the Memory Mansion, as I took to calling Mum and Dad’s house.

So I returned home, put on my wetsuit and walked into the Pacific as the sun was just about to set behind Bowen Island.

Put on the goggles and snorkel and just swam out as far as I could till my arms couldn’t move. I watched the sun set as tears just flowed.

Take care of my Dad, will ya?

Turned and swam back without goggles for a few seconds. Found that one can still shed tears underwater.

Got tears of my own right now.

So thank you for your writing, thank you indeed.