two years ago today, my father died. he was 71 years old. he died of influenza. i watched him take his last breaths and he died fighting.
i miss him, terribly.
in the spring of this year, i wrote a piece of writing called “my late father“. i write about grief frequently, and as of yet, “my late father” is my best piece about the complicated feelings i have had regarding the sudden death of my father.
i recorded this piece of writing as a spoken word piece and composed some accompaniment to go with it.
i made the video for this song using vhs clips i have shot in the days since december 18, 2023. i used these clips to show that life continues to spin around us, even when we feel like we are dying inside.
thank you to @brush_of_nihilus and @omintejagfanns for your support and love during this time of transition and loss for me. i am eternally grateful.
“my late father” is now available as a spoken word piece on my bandcamp. it’s free.
the train ride from sundsvall to stockholm is four hours. he dislikes the train and dislikes stockholm and the big city people.
he waits in arlanda airport in stockholm for almost six hours. there’s the flight from stockholm to frankfurt which is about two hours. he waits in the airport in frankfurt for two hours. he has never been on a plane before. he isn’t sure if he minds flying or not.
then the flight from frankfurt to vancouver. that one is nine hours. he sleeps restlessly and refuses most food.
i watch his flight on a flight tracker app.
he sits in the airport in vancouver for two hours.
and then, finally, the flight from vancouver to kamloops. one hour.
twenty six hours.
im in the kamloops airport pacing and drinking shitty too warm black coffee. it’s thanksgiving and others gather in the airport to welcome wayward loved ones.
when he comes through that gate into kamloops he has a smile on his face and he walks lightly. i am awestruck by him. my first thought – “he doesn’t look angry” and i am surprised at this. he isn’t angry. he is calm and joyful even though he looks tired.
he does not see me in the crowd.
i run to him and grab his arm. he turns and smiles. he puts his arm around me.
we share our first kiss in the kamloops airport at baggage claim amongst the suitcases and trolleys and tired travellers wearing north face and lululemon.
he holds my hand in his and we are both intoxicated in the prescence of each other and we fumble for his suitcase.
we walk out into the crisp kamloops fall.
i take the reservation highway home.
we hold hands the whole way as he looks out the window and takes in the desert city.
sundsvall to kamloops.
twenty six hours.
all for me.
what a joy to feel so desired.
what a pleasure to have him look at me and see both a beginning and an end.
can you feel it? there’s this sense of unease in the air that lingers like the smell of diesel and the feeling of dusty ice in our mouths and sinuses.
it’s just a forest service road and old TVs shot to shit out in the open field, spent bullet casings and beer cans, an old mattress filthy on the ground where even heaven can’t bear to look.
it’s in the forest raves by the old waterfall and everyone drops acid and has dreadlocks and crystal necklaces. it’s in good weed smoked out of shitty bongs quoting trailer park boys and corner gas. it’s that meter in our voices when we punctuate our sentences with “eh” and drink down our timmies.
it’s in the way cute girls with expensive dye jobs scarf down poutine in the streets at 3am.
you can feel it on reservation highways past the pow wow grounds like you’re hearing drums and dancers. it’s loud amongst our awkward french and signs acknowledging indigenous territories and sacred spaces and churches standing forlorn amongst mountains and parking lots.
i feel it amongst my people, in the punk houses and student apartments and at farmer’s markets and the old haunted art gallery.
when the summer sun hits the sagebrush and bakes rattlesnake blood and coyote whispers and we smoke cigarettes on front porches and watch stupid guys in white oakleys cruise down main street blasting dubstep.
it’s a winter morning and someone shovelled your driveway for you and someone else says “she’s greasier than fuck out there, bud”.
we live our lives in forests and city streets and on the reservations and ranches. we are wild wretched things haunting old blue hockey arenas that we sometimes call “barns”.
there’s the guy with braids and a cowboy hat at the shop selling coffee and bannock and he talks about sacred teachings with kind eyes and rough hands.
and it’s there in the stuffy vintage blouses of the ladies handing out pamphlets about jesus outside the bank.
and we breathe it in along with the sage and water of the two rivers, inhaled alongside road grime and diesel and the dead deer along the highway.
hospital vespers 