Eight years.

Eight years-

Sometimes it feels so long, Other times so short. But today, today it doesn't feel like either. Today it's just a fact.

Its been eight years he's been gone.

I remember my last night with him. My last "shift" at the hospital, we'd call them. My mother, brother, and I each took twenty-four-hour time slots to be by my father's bedside. We would have done it regardless; we WERE doing it before the hospital tried to move him from his private room in palliative care to a public one shared with other people because, essentially, well, he just wasn't dying fast enough. The nursing staff talked to us about it multiple times. The three of us refused to let it happen. We accomplished this goal by never leaving my father alone for more than twenty-minute intervals. A quick coffee break, a quick shower down the hall, a quick duck outside for some fresh air. But that was it. As I mentioned, we were doing it before the threat of relocating rooms was on the table. The added risk, though, that could result if we didn't stay vigilant with this routine was too risky. So we held on to our discipline. We wouldn't let anyone move him. And for that, my father was able to die with some dignity. I am still so proud the three of us were able to provide that for my father in his last days.

It was the early morning of December 20th, eight years ago.

I was curled up in the much too uncomfortable, much too old, much too weathered armchair beside my dad's hospital bed. I was trying and failing to get any sleep. So instead, I listened intently to his laboured breath.

" The death rattle" Is the technical term for it. When someone is so close to the brink of death, they are too weak even to swallow, so the fluids in their body start to drown them from the inside out.

I saw the space we resided in getting lighter, even though my eyes were shut, as the two nurses on night duty opened the door to our room, tucked away in the corner at the end of the hallway. The hallway where multiple times a day, I heard anguished cries from other family members mourning the loss of their loved one. I knew it was only a matter of time before we were called up to the plate—only a matter of time When it would be our turn to try and bat through the excruciating curveballs thrown at us. Fully Knowing we would strike out.

The two nurses entered the room talking loudly, chatting about upcoming plans and Christmas get-togethers, catching up with each other like they were walking into a cafe, not into a dying man's room.

While his wounded, worn down, heartbroken daughter sat curled up in an armchair, not a foot away from where he lay.

I pulled the too-thin, too-prickly hospital blanket over my head and listened as they changed his bedding, moving his almost unrecognizable withering body from one side to the other to do so. I could hear the nurses washing his pale-coloured skin with a sponge. I said nothing as they chatted through the chores they were performing on my father as if he was an unkempt hotel bed and the pair of them were housekeepers.

But underneath my blanket, I was seething. My heart pounding so fast. I wanted to scream.

"Can't you see me here?! right beside my dying father?? Can't you see me!?!?'

I heard the voices begin to fade, and the light that lit up the hallway disappeared as they closed the door, moving on to the next room. I ripped the linen off of me, jumped up, and started pacing back and forth.

" Can you believe that?! Can you FUCKING BELIEVE THAT?! Jesus Christ, how dare they, I'm sorry dad I'm sorry I'm just so mad. I need to step outside for a minute."

I spoke to my father as if he could hear me, as if he hadn't fallen into a coma days earlier. I'm still mad at myself for this after all these years because I know deep down there is a chance he could hear what I was saying.

I believe this because when I held his hand earlier that night and told him I loved him, I swear I could feel him tighten his grip around my palm. Now, that could be wishful thinking on my part, but I felt it, which means if he heard that exchange, there was a strong possibility he had heard this one too. There goes my anger again. Always getting the best of me.

I left later that morning when my brother relieved me from my shift to start his.

And not fifteen hours later, My father was gone.

It was the proper order of things, For it to just be him and my brother in the room when he died. I know my brother wished for it that way, and I'm glad it was granted.

I remember a few days later, two days before Christmas, to be exact. I was picking up my dad's ashes with my mother. I held the shoebox-sized container on my lap as my mother put on the left turn signal to exit the funeral home parking lot. I stared out the passenger side window into the grey sky above, tears streaming down both cheeks.

There was a long time I was angry at my father after he died, for things said, things done, the things that were never made right before he went.

But time heals, it always heals, and over the eight years he has been gone, I've been able to heal, to forgive, to apologize, and to move on.

Our family dog, a massive chocolate lab named Hunter, brought my mom much solace over the years after my dad passed away.

I remember seeing Hunter for the first time in what feels like forever ago when I still lived in my hometown. I didn't live with my parents at the time, but despite that, I burst through the front door into their living room like I did, so ecstatic to see my parent's new puppy. My dad was sitting in his recliner with Hunter, who was all but the length of my dad's forearm, cuddled up and napping beside my father. He was so tiny.

That didn't last long. By his final years, Hunter was gigantic. He weighed about one hundred and fifty pounds, and that is not an exaggeration. When I would go home to visit my mom on the east coast after my dad was gone, I would curl up on the floor in the evening by the fireplace with Hunter. Him snoring loudly. I would lay in front of him as he lay on his side, and I would wiggle my body closer to him until I could take his front leg and wrap it around my shoulder. I would nuzzle the back of my head into the nape of his neck. Hunter was so large he could spoon me as if he was human, and he would- He would eventually always wake up and be entirely startled by my presence, though, having no idea, I cuddled up with him while he dreamt. I love those memories of us.

About six months before I moved to the east coast to be with my mom, I phoned her for a chat. It was about eight p.m. her time, sometime in November, so it was cold. I knew something was wrong immediately, just from the way she answered the call.

Panicked, I asked.

" Is everything ok?"

Her voice cracked as she said,

"No, I can't get Hunter up the front steps and inside. He just won't budge. I've been out with him for hours, and it's so cold. He'll freeze to death outside, but I can't get him to move."

She broke down crying.

Yet another reason I was so eager to get back to the east coast. So my mom wasn't alone in handling shit like this, so she had someone to lean on in these kinds of situations.

I told her that she was just going to have to yank him as hard as she could inside, by his leash. I told her it didn't matter if it hurt him a bit. The other option was for Hunter to freeze to death from the elements. But she wasn't strong enough. So my mom ended up having to go pick up my brother in the city, about an hour and a half round trip, so he could help lift Hunter. Eventually, they got him into the house, but these episodes started to happen more frequently. It's like Hunter was suddenly petrified of a little bit of height.

He made it through until I moved home though, giving me a few precious months with Hunter and my dog Hank together to run around in the backyard. Then, after we'd finished playtime in the grass, I would get them to both sit in line for a treat, feeding Hank a little slice of apple and providing Hunter an entire apple whole, core and all. He would have the apple taken care of in all but a few bites. As I said, he was an absolute beast.

Hunter died a few days before Canada day four years ago. For whatever reason, the waterfront restaurant I worked at was particularly slow on this beautiful late June evening. I was cut and got to head home early. As I pulled into my driveway, I saw my brother and mom sitting solemnly, with their hands resting on their knees and Hunter lying in front of them. I knew straight away that something was wrong as my brother didn't live in town. Yet there he was, sitting outside my mother's home.

I pulled up quickly and jumped out of the driver's seat of my vehicle. They explained to me what was going on. It was Hunter's time. He couldn't even stand up. My brother had phoned the vet in the city to ask if they could come out to perform the euthanasia. Not because my mother wanted to do it at our home but because she simply didn't know how they would pick him up and get him to fit in the back of my mom's car—again speaking to just how vast Hunter was.

But I had a jeep. So I hastily opened the hatch and tore everything out of the trunk, I lowered the two back seats down, and we made a flatbed out of blankets. When we finally got Hunter up and into the makeshift bed, My brother phoned the vet back and said we were on our way. They told us they would be waiting outside with a stretcher for Hunter when we arrived.

We decided to take the back roads, one- because I was too filled with anxiety to drive on the highway- and two- because we all wanted a few extra moments with Hunter. The sunset We were given on the drive that night was unparallel to anything I've seen before, and I have been blessed with some absolutely magnificent ones. This one, though, this one turned the entire sky the deepest, richest blood orange, with the sun taking its time to drop ever further down, slowly dripping into the horizon like honey. It lasted almost the entire ride.

The vet clinic held true to its word, and the veterinary assistants were outside with a stretcher beside them when we arrived. Finally, after another struggle, and with the help of all of us there, We were able to hoist Hunter onto the gurney and wheel him into the building.

The clinic was kind and empathetic, and patient. They gave us a comfortable room to be in with Hunter and told us we could have as much time as we needed to say our goodbyes. With Hunter in the middle and the three of us sitting cross-legged around him, we gave him pets and belly scratches. We cried and told him how much we all loved him—all giving our own unique reasons why he was so special to us.

I wrapped my arms around his broad neck, leaning closely into his face, and I picked up his floppy ear so I could whisper sweet nothings into it.

" Thank you for being the best dog. Thank you for all of the cuddles, and the kisses, and the walks. Thank you for taking care of mom. She needed it. And thank you for staying around long enough to give me a chance to say goodbye. Love you always."

I sobbed quietly into his fur as it became damp from my fallen tears.

How lucky am I? honestly, how lucky am I that I was given the opportunity to properly say my goodbyes in person to both my father and my family dog? I am so fortunate for that. As I know, not all are granted that privilege.

My father and my dog travel with me now as a pair. They sat on my passenger seat all the way from the Eastcoast to the Pacific Northwest, with a detour to Northern Manitoba, where I left a little bit of both of them behind.

I hate transferring my dad's ashes and Hunters—the whole process of it. First, out of a box, then out of a bag, and then into a nice rocks glass. I have done it a few times now, and it's definitely never grown on me.

I remember when I was leaving the east coast to embark on this new journey. I was moving and transferring my father's ashes yet again. This time though, as I was scooping the ash into a trusty ziplock bag, I found a screw—an actual screw in the dust that once was my father's bones. I was so taken aback that I didn't know what to think. All I managed to come up with was that at some point in my father's life, he had surgery, maybe his arm fixed, maybe his knee, I don't know, but that was the only sense I could make of it, that this screw didn't melt away with the rest of his vessel.

My father was a tough son of a bitch, though. So I like to think maybe it's an ode, one of 'hold true to yourself, don't let yourself get screwed over.' or something along those lines. That's reaching, I know, but I don't care. In these types of situations, you have to take whatever thought process makes you feel the best and just run with it. That's what I've come to learn works best for me, at least.

So like I said, they travel as a pair. They come as a unit. I've been waiting to spread the ashes of the two of them in another spot for a while. But I needed it to feel right. Where I live currently makes me feel so grounded. I never fully feel at ease in my life, but out of all the places I've been, that has given me a sense of calm. This place has to take the cake.

Today is a better day than most for the task at hand. It's a day I know is coming every year; it's a day that I almost always make sure to have a drink and a puff and a trip down memory lane. So that is what I will do.

I will walk to my favorite beach. I will bring two small bags of individual ashes and all the other provisions I tend to travel with on the anniversary of my father's death. A Mickie of Smirnoff vodka ( my dad's spirit of choice), a bottle of Pepsi, and a small bag of ice. one of his harmonicas, and two joints, one to smoke and one to leave behind. Although, if my father had his say, he would tell me my pot was trash—way too subtle for him.

When my dad's health was rapidly declining, I had booked a trip home to visit him. but a few months before, I decided that instead of flying, I would drive rather so I could surprise my dad by bringing my dog, which my dad adored. So I and Hank, along with a girlfriend of mine at the time, made the road trip. It was an emotional reunion, and that evening we sat around the table laughing, drinking, and smoking. My friend and I puffed on the joint my dad passed to us, and within a few minutes, the two of us were both fucking ripped. Like the first time getting stoned kind of high, my friend and I were both having trouble keeping it together. My dad looked at me like I had two heads.

"Jesus Christ, you can't handle your dope anymore or what?"

He said to me.

"Well, apparently not YOUR dope."

I spoke back to him with the worst pasties in my mouth.

And it's true. I can't handle pot like that anymore. I only smoke recreationally, dreamy strains of weed that make my beach walk a Lil prettier. It probably wouldn't be his cup of tea, but that's what I smoke. It is what it is.

So, as I said, I'll take them both to the beach, the beach I've walked on a hundred times now. I'll find a sturdy log to rest my back, and I'll sit and enjoy a conversation with my father, long past due. I'll tell him about my life's ongoings since he left us. I'll ask him if he is proud of me. Proud of how I have handled things I've endured over the course he has been gone, like fighting for my safety, for my life, and surviving.

I'll put on Juzzie Smith and listen to a particular song by this musician, the one that if I close my eyes and focus really hard, it is indistinguishable to tell who is playing, my father or this legendary harmonica player. Then I"ll play some old-timey blues for the two of us. The type of stuff we would listen to around the dining room table at one point in time, so many years ago, as we drank, ate, and, most importantly, laughed.

And then, when the time is right, I'll pick myself up from the sandy ground beneath me and walk toward the Pacific Ocean, and as I walk, I'll sprinkle bits of Hunter's spirit along the way, freeing him to run and frolic and play with all of the other pups that roam this beach. Then, finally, when I reach the point where the land meets the sea, and the sea meets the sky, connected by the crashing of the silver-coloured waves brought in from the ocean's swell. I'll take the dust of my father, what is left of him, screws and all, and send some of his essence out to sea.

When I choose to leave this place, whenever that may be, to leave this part of the journey that I'm on and venture off to somewhere new. I can leave knowing that I'm not only leaving a part of my soul but my fathers and Hunters too.

J.W