Armed with proof of life for Dad (am I not the ultimate proof of life? and loss, for that matter?), we headed back to the Funeral Home today to sort out some more paperwork. Nine minutes early in the parking lot it was early enough to be awkward, so we paused to wait. I glanced south and the corner of my eye caught a giant brown creature fly into the trees. A quick drive closer and it was clearly a hawk, likely Swainson’s. He was MASSIVE. It was startling to see such a large predator deep within city limits.

After walking a bit on the branch awkwardly and finally finding his balance, he then fixed his eye squarely on me:

(I’ll have to dedicate a post or two to the ongoing bird motif and its connection to Dad soon…)

After gazing in awe for a few more minutes at the raptor greeting us, it was time to go in. We entered Hainstock’s Funeral Home and Crematorium (even the name sounds gloomy, doesn’t it?). We met a dusty mammoth of a man who led us upstairs through some doors and a long corridor filled with dark rooms to an end dark room which was quite solemn and magnificently furnished. One couldn’t help but immediately spy the tissue box at the center of the table upon walking in, followed by that familiar surreal this-can’tpossibly-be-happening feeling wash over you for the ten thousandth time. We were then led through signing an endless number of indistinguishable documents in the same room Dad had planned his funeral years ago.

As is the case most of the time these days when interacting with the outside world, it all seemed quite grey and blurred, with little meaning and dwarfed by the immense pain from the gaping hole in my heart. A dissociation of sorts, I guess. There was one takeaway from the encounter, however-

The Government of Canada bequeaths a one time $2,500 death “benefit” to a survivor. I guess this is an attempt to offset some of the money ($10,000-$20,000 minimum if you want a funeral) one has to pay to die… And just to dig the knife in a little deeper, the death benefit itself is taxed.

…
About an hour after the appointment, as I was switching Dad’s Toyota Corolla to reverse in the garage, I happened to glance upward to my left and gave a start. It was a poster Dad must have added this spring when he refreshed the posters that hang in the garage. The bird motif continues. A surreal day, indeed.

We are gathering documentation today to prove who Dad was and that he is gone.

The irony leaves me breathless. I am tempted to write so very much more here, but I must refrain. I am too tired, for I had to pick up and open his wallet today.

It was at least ten billion solar masses heavy.

He loved his bike. Bikes equalled freedom and joy to him. I’d brought the wallet to him when he was in ICU, unresponsive, those final days. When I placed it in his hand I swear there was a reflexive response. I’d told him he would be using it again soon.

Outside of card (the double-sided paper was folded):

Dad heard a song of Phil Ochs around the time of listening to other folk artists such as Joan Baez and Ian and Sylvia in the mid 1960s. He identified it as written brilliantly Bob Dylan-style, and instinctively purchased his album “Pleasures of the Harbour”. Upon first listen, Dad was not disappointed and loved every song, including the title track. The picture and song quote were at Dad’s request.

The back of the folded paper was the poem “Death is Nothing At All”. Dad recorded this poem around 2021 for a future funeral, and the recording was played at the service.

Inside of card (the double-sided paper was folded):

Dad provided a guide for the Order of Service for the Celebration of Life program, and we included his requested prelude/postlude songs, one of his favourite songs, a recorded poem, a song dedicated to Mom, and a recorded selection to conclude. The rest of the program organically developed as we went through his personal writings, collection of final thoughts, and reached out to his closest friends.

This afternoon’s matchup: Collapsing boxes for recycle vs. immeasurable grief and loss.

Analysis: No contest.

Winner: W.H. Auden.

The Celebration of Life display for Dad was deliberately simple (Thoreau-like stripped down), but it had all the essentials. The urn, chosen by Dad, represents transformation. His picture was snapped during a family occasion, mid-laugh. Reading glasses hang out of frame, at the ready to employ. The purple shirt was a favourite, a nod to the purple shirt he wore 53 years ago for his wedding.

The flowers were a cascade of colour, also Dad’s preference. He always loved representation of the all spectrum colours when choosing spring flowers in greenhouses. Less interested in rigid locked in patterns of colour for flower pots and gardens, he preferred the organic explosion of colour and texture from which he could draw his own joyful experience and meaning. Dad would also nod in approval of the mountains and stream in stained glass on the wall behind. Representation of the water element, process and flow, was key. A water fountain had been planned for the room but the stained glass offered the same effect, and spoke to the many spiritual pilgrimmages to the Rocky Mountains.

The roses were laid by Mom, myself and Jason, and my brother. The final four who surrounded him as he passed on, singing, quoting and releasing him with peace and love from this mortal coil. A tribute to his romantic soul.

Two of Dad’s statues sit behind. First, Atlas himself. Dad bought the sculpture for “symbolic reasons”. I realized after his passing that Dad truly was our family’s Atlas. He anchored us, supported us, and ceaselessly worked lifted our spirits us up. Solid. Dependable. Constant.

I gifted the second statue to him several years ago – a small replica of Auguste Rodin’s sculpture The Thinker. This is also Dad. Dad had the richest inner world of anyone I’d ever met. Always thinking, connecting, synthesizing, creating.

And lingering in the background, a symbol of Dad’s second language – music. His guitar. The instrument was cared for with reverence – well-loved and well-played over the years by such a gifted musician and vocalist. He would play favourites in his basement studio, perform gigs, and jam with friends and family. He’d invite even the least musically talented of us to join along, teasing out our inner singers and percussionists. These musical Moments were deceptively simple – but reflecting now, the act of sharing, enjoying, creating beautiful music together tapped into a timeless, sacred ritual, aligning our collective hearts and inspiring transcendent joy.

A grieving daughter’s journey into consciousness

The day after a Celebration of Life and burial for my father, the words Dad lived his life by – Emily Dickinson’s “I dwell in possibility” – were juxtaposed starkly against my own state of mind. My world has been burned to ash. The sun is gone and so too is the anchor of my life for five decades. I realized I desperately needed a means to process this experience.

Although nowhere near as clever, well-spoken, well-read, or even in a neighbouring realm close to my Dad in terms of writing skill, I will haphazardly try to find my way here, reflecting on personal memories, Dad’s passions and posts, in addition to other life musings and meditations.