Time

WEEK 1

4:37 p.m., Tuesday:

Your time arrived. I got the call that you finally passed. I just got out of a meeting. You were alone in the park. The dog walkers found your body. While you had taken your last breath, I was discussing spreadsheets, allocation, budgets, and potential raises.

The doctor assured me you only had until February. I was sure I didn’t need to postpone my Bali trip. I was confident that I didn’t need to purchase additional travel insurance to cover unforeseen circumstances. At any rate, I’ve lost $120 for my stupidity. I felt like an asshole concerning myself with trivial matters when dealing with a deceased father. Those things shouldn’t matter. But should it? I tried to keep my morbid thoughts to myself. Unfortunately, my inside voice was too loud when my friend, Lesa said:

He’s your father, Anthony. Cancelling your Bali trip should be the least of your worries. Christ, have some respect.

You’re my father. So, by default, I ought to honour your death, according to Lesa.

 6:35 a.m.,Thursday:

The flight. Instead of going east, I head to my roots, westbound, purchased on credit. I complained about lineups, removing my shoes, and pulling my laptop from the laptop bag. I moaned about the small airline seating and the long flight across the country. I bitched about the mundane things while your life no longer existed.

2:15 p.m., Friday:

Your apartment. We gathered in your seniors’ apartment. They were all there. Your sisters, your brothers, your other daughter, and Aunt Glena and Uncle Tom. And Aunt Susan cut short her vacation in Scottsdale and took the first flight back to Canada. There were claiming your things like a bunch of petty thieves, felt entitled. They were taking dead man’s possessions. I watched—observed — and watch some more. I said nothing. I even said nothing when they took your seal skin boots.

You loved those books.

Probably the only valuable item you had owned. I guess Uncle Tom felt entitled to your things, as repayment for the one time he helped you financially. The boots were hardly worn, an ideal sale on eBay. I wondered how many bids they received.

 5:00 – 7:00 p.m. Saturday:

The wake. That evening. The scheduled time slot to visit the dead. I didn’t enter the room where you were placed—the room, a holding place where the air lingered of death. A space where you were unrecognizable, eyes shut, pale white skin, pressed lips, arms folded and rested on your chest. They didn’t put on your eyeglasses. Maybe they didn’t know that your eyeglasses were part of your identity. Where were your eyeglasses? I thought your eyeglasses were amongst your belongings that I collected from the hospital staff, along with your false teeth, an expired library card, one shoe, and a pair of underwear. I threw away the items but kept the worn library card. The card had your handwriting on it in blue ink—evidence of what once was life—proof that you once existed.

WEEK 2

11:30 a.m., Monday:

The funeral. Twenty-three people attended, sixteen of who were family. I couldn’t make a speech. I couldn’t develop anything profound, anything that exhibited nuance to honour your passing, just as I could never choose an appropriated Father’s Day card because none of the greetings rang true nor represented our relationship.

Relationships. That implied a relation. We never related, unsure if it was by choice or we were destined as rivals.

1:05 p.m., Monday:

The burial. I sat in the passenger side of my friend’s car. She drove behind you where the death parade took us to your designated gravesite. Six, maybe seven feet, they lifted you down. I tossed a rose into the grave. I didn’t say goodbye there because you weren’t truly there. You were lifeless vessel, placed respectfully into the earth, where your soul, (At least I believed) transcended.

I’ve never returned to your gravesite.   

7:25 p.m., Monday:

The birthday party. It was Mom’s birthday, the day we buried you. I made shepherd’s pie. Quick—simple—easy. I wanted easy. I wanted simple.

There was a cake, vanilla, with white icing, four candles, only four, because that’s all that we could find in the junk drawer. I forgot to pick up the candles. There were also pictures, exchanges of smiles, laughter. Life continued We temporarily celebrated life. We temporarily forgotten your death.  

2:16 p.m., Tuesday:

The Purge. Your family claimed anything of value. The rest of your things I donated to Goodwill. I left your one-bedroom apartment disinfected, empty, readily available for the next senior tenant to take up residence, for a future tenant to create a temporary home. 

6:35 a.m., Wednesday

The returned flight was eastbound. I take a deep breath. You know, one of those in-breaths where you think you found satisfaction. But there was no comfort in the release. 

3:43 a.m., Thursday:

The dream. I woke with a pain in my lower back as I peeled myself out of a dream state, a dream about you. You said it’s only kidney stones…it’ll pass. The most nurturing piece of advice you ever gave; it only took your death to do so.

8:45 p.m. Friday

The bid. I bid on your seal skin boots. The current bid listed, $1560.00. I didn’t make a counteroffer. I could never appreciate the value of sealskin or the style. Felt grotesque to see people dressed from head to toe in seal skin fur. Then again, I have my collection of animal skin, specifically my Italian leather shoes. I love those shoes. They make my feet breathe.

 10:01 a.m. Saturday:

The crows. There were crows in my backyard, all six perched on the wire. Somebody told me that when you see six crows, death is near. Their prophecy arrived a little too late. Later I learnt a neighbour found a baby crow in their yard. Was it a sign of rebirth?

7:35 p.m., Sunday:

Finally, I exhaled. I think I released forgiveness.

Perhaps? Maybe my animosity will soon fade, die. Or maybe those crows knew something that I didn’t.

It was September. You said that you liked the fall. The fall brought a cool breeze, comfort from the sweltering heat during the summers. And if I remembered, you loathed Tuesdays, specifically those Tuesdays at 2:15 p.m. when your neighbour played the accordion. Funny, the day I cleaned your apartment, I didn’t hear an accordion.

What remained, though, you left this world on a Tuesday, peacefully. At least I’ve hoped it was quietly.