FIVE YEARS
Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth
—David Bowie, “Rock ’n’ Roll Suicide”, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars
I started experiencing time differently after my father died. It became a measure of all the moments and new developments that he misses, the pathways to personal growth that tunnel around the void of his absence.
My Dad was absolutely terrified of being forgotten.
His drink of choice was a Bloody Caesar. He loved a good steak but nothing could compare to a Dic Ann’s cheeseburger (all dressed, ordered in multiples of two). His favourite meal to prepare at home was paella, with enough jumbo shrimp to share with his loyal feline companion, Madison.
He always kept a Cherry Blossom box or two in the fridge. When it was announced earlier this year that Cherry Blossom candies were being discontinued, I imagined him joking about how he had singlehandedly been keeping them in production.
The most well-known fact about my Dad is that he was a lifelong and very devoted Boston Bruins fan. I had the pleasure of attending many games with him at the Bell Center (though we never wore our team jerseys because, as he would say, his fighting days were far behind him). Admittedly my interest in the sport was almost exclusively sustained by the opportunities to spend time with him.
Montrealers who did not know him personally were perhaps more familiar with the big red and yellow sign on Brunswick Blvd, or his distinctive cadence on local radio for the many years he voiced his own ads (“triple OHHHH seven”).
My Dad only took one short vacation a year: Canadian Thanksgiving long weekend in Las Vegas. He always stayed at the same spot on the Strip, The Mirage. When The Mirage permanently closed last year, I imagined him making a quip about the hotel and casino going out of business specifically due to his absence.
He would waltz around the house singing the refrain of April Wine’s “The Whole World’s Goin’ Crazy”, an early introduction to the concept of something being funny because it is true.
Though not a musician himself, Dad loved music and never hesitated to sing along to his favourite songs in the car, sometimes in complete disregard of the lyrics. Even as a 70s heavy metal guy he had plenty of love for pop music. He notably developed an affinity for Avril Lavigne’s “Complicated”.
His favourite song of all time was Otis Redding’s “(Sittin’ on) The Dock of the Bay”. His favourite musical was Hair. He was thrilled to witness the legalization of marijuana in his lifetime. He was very skilled at voice impressions, particularly those of the Looney Tunes.
He loved making people laugh.
During my childhood he invented a pseudo-superhero alias called the Don’t-Do-It Guy. Whenever Don’t-Do-It Guy made an appearance, he had a singular mission: to inform my sister and me that he had already made a mistake so that we don’t have to. When we asked “Dad, if cigarettes are unhealthy, why do you smoke?”, he would simply reply: “Because I’m the Don’t-Do-It Guy.”
As an adult, now the age my father was when I was born, I see this character as more than just a shortcut out of assuming responsibility; it was a lesson in forgiving imperfection. My Dad didn’t waste his time trying to convince anyone that he was flawless, he lived on his own terms. It is not a parenting method I would particularly recommend, however I can recognize that we all inescapably assume the role of Don’t-Do-It Guy sometimes. Letting go of shame grants us more bandwidth to appreciate the wonder and the terror of being alive.
My Dad occasionally visits me in dreams. Seated, reclined, replying to a business email on his phone or reading a Stephen King novel or sipping a Diet Pepsi. The apparition rarely speaks, but his presence is reverberant.
The Mirage is gone, Cherry Blossoms discontinued, the sign on Brunswick taken down.
Your voice hasn’t filled a room in five years.
Rest easy, no one has forgotten.