The empty chair

One year ago on a day with crystal blue skies in early June, a day just like today, my father sat on my back deck for what would be the last time. When my brother came by and asked how he was feeling, my dad smiled up at him from the wicker chair where he sat and said "Oh, I'm still enjoying life."

I'd just got back from my four months in Cuba, and my parents had come to Toronto for the weekend to celebrate. My dad had just finished four weeks of radiation treatment for prostate cancer and he was feeling tired, but that was to be expected, since it takes a while for that to leave your system. We all expected him to feel better soon.

I remember we spoke that afternoon of the neighbourhood foodbank in Ottawa where my dad chaired the board, and the Annual General Meeting he'd be running for them later that week. We spoke of my brother's upcoming trip to Brazil to see the World Cup. And we spoke of my time in Cuba, and how strange it felt for me to be home.

I remember the conversation taking a morbid turn when my dad made a joke. "I don't know how much time I have left," he said, "but I don't think I'll ever need another passport!" He and my mother had just gotten theirs renewed, and they'd paid extra for the kind that would last ten years. I thought of that joke yesterday as I filled out the form for my own passport renewal. Like my dad, I ticked the box to get one that would last ten years.

This Thursday I'll be doing a reading at the annual Moosemeat Chapbook launch (6PM at Supermarket in Kensington). The piece I'll be reading is about my dad's death, and the process that unfolded in the six and a half weeks that followed that afternoon. I wrote it back in April, and hadn't realized then that the timing for the reading would be so eerily appropriate.

Here's a sneak preview:

"I'm still enjoying life," he says as the month of June begins. We've just been walking. Now he sits beneath a tree.
Weeks later comes a celebration for the anniversary of my birth. The neighbours bring champagne. He smiles, takes some sips. then goes upstairs to rest.
His weight slips away. My mother brings his meals on trays. One morning he recounts a nightmare: frozen Boost impersonating ice cream, Ensure in his coffee in place of milk. "It's terrible stuff," he says, still shaken from the visions...

The full piece will appear in my next post.

http://www.openbooktoronto.com/events/moosemeat_writers_group_launches_moosedemeanours_with_isabel_matwawana_jerry_schaefer_and_ken