You are juggling oranges in the backyard and making Labrador pups appear out of thin air. You are yellow roses, root beer floats and clinging to the back of the windsurf board as we raced over Lake Huron, telling me to watch my toes in case of sharks. You pushed my buttons, and I pushed back, winning the war of words with laughter.
You were the sound of a game of baseball or golf on the television. You were Christmas lights hung in a straight line, the smell of pine and the cool fall breeze coming through the back door as you brought cut wood in for the fireplace and I made a neat stack. You were the way the leaves changed in the fall. You were the way I always looked up when I heard the harsh trumpeting of geese making arrows in the sky. You were the tug on the end of the line, the joy when I shouted “dad I caught one! DAD I CAUGHT one.”
You were the voice in my head that told me the monsters that visited at night probably only wanted to play, and that mushrooms were grown in a pile of shit, in the dark. You were the shout of “lean forward!” as we skied with our boots undone. You were the scent of woodsmoke in your workshop, how we ate lobster in Halifax. You were the way you purchased every art supply under the sun for me. I was wrong to think your rush of creativity was vicarious when you were an artist. Just with wood, or metal or stone.
Your stomach was a pillow, your hands were sun brown, and your gasping voice was you telling me “I love you” when you thought this was this heart attack that would mean the end. You were the way the room spun when you told us you had cancer. You were the tears you cried as you sat on the hospital bed and the footsteps were mine as I ran from the room, trying to un-see what I saw.
You were the semi-formal I skipped off to. The way when I said, “see you later” you said “goodbye.” On the verge of the 26 years that have kept us apart. You were the beautiful day at the cabin and the sun lit stroll in the forest. You were the way cousin Rob the paramedic tried, and tried, and tried to bring you back because he loved you, because he loved us. You are the pile of stone next to the path where you fell, and came to rest, on a carpet of red, and orange and brown but mostly gold.
Miss You On This Day Dad