1 year.

1 year.

12:05.

1 year since the metal hit the glass.

40 minutes from when I landed and texted you, "Yay ground!"

And you didn't reply.

45 minutes from when I stepped off the plane and you weren't there.

55 minutes from opening Twitter to see there had been an accident.

57 minutes from texting a friend in media to ask if he had seen you there.

97 minutes from driving past a burned out truck on Pitts Memorial and realizing it wasn't our car.

4 hours from when the officer came to the house to tell us you were gone.

And nothing has been even remotely close to normal since.

Walking into that room at Barrett's as "Joe Batt's Arm Longliners:" played, your dad and your uncle Tony crooning the lyrics we had sang on Sundays as you asked me if I knew every fish harvester mentioned in the song.

"Justin and the Endeavour! With Billy Burke as mate!"

Looking at your cold, still face, a face that was always so animated and held so much love.

Cold.

Still.

Your hands covered in those white gloves because they were too beaten up to not have them covering the injuries.

I fixed your hair.

You never parted it the way they had.

Now begin the seconds.

All of the firsts have happened.

The birthdays, the Xmas, the Halloween and Trick or Treating, the Easter, the Burger Battle, the hockey, the tournament, the...everything.

The immense loss of what we saw of the future.

Our little family.

Our future.

1 whole year.

The house, the painting, the furniture, the renovations, the loss.

The secondary losses.

I miss you and I miss him.

I miss Vinny and wonder how he is.

The changes.

I have tried to channel it all into good energy to do what I know you would want me to continue doing.

Work.

The house.

Volunteering.

The message.

Doing good in your name and feeling your love push me through.

I have met some beautiful people - tied together in our loss, the grief, the pain.

Nobody really understands this loss unless you have been there - and I understand that.

I do not expect anyone to be able to fathom the shock, the loss, the emptiness and the way the world feels so hollow now.

Stanley came.

I am still convinced you had sent him.

He knows when I need him and that funny little boy breathes new life into me every single day.

And in two days I will step on a plane and head to the same meeting I was gone for when you were taken on your way to pick me up.

Life comes full circle that way.

How has a year gone by?

How has life changed so much in such a short time yet it has felt like an eternity?

I hope you see that I have amazing friends, amazing coworkers, an amazing support system that carries me through even on the darkest of days.

So much has changed yet so much remains the same.

Last night we had our league banquet and when Barbie played "Sonny's Dream" and asked me to join her in singing my heart caught in my throat and I could only sing quietly.

The last time I heard it was at your funeral, when we all clapped, celebrating your life and the difference you have made in this world.

"Sonny, don't go away, I am here all alone..."

I will always, always continue to try and do good in your name.

You were too good for this world.

And on the 18th I will once again enter that court room.

"And I'm feeling so tired, I'm not all that strong..."

Everything takes so much more energy these days than it ever did.

So many have left and thrown me aside in all of this.

I wish it didn't have to be that way.

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

But I feel you with me, guiding me, telling me to suck it up and do what you always felt I was capable of doing.

"Don't ever assume anyone is your friend. Push, work hard and keep doing what you do," you would say.

And I will.

1 year.

1 whole year without you, without my home despite this house that now has become my sanctuary.

You were my home.

1 whole year without your smile, your hug, your reassurance, your presence.

1 year.

1 year without that forehead kiss every single day.

Without your dance before bed, telling me I could stay on the couch then scooping me up and running into our room as we both laughed.

I remember the first day when I kept asking myself how I would make it through that day, how I would get through a week, a month, six months.

I could not see any way I could possibly go on and find the fortitude to carry on.

All of those days are a blur now.

I swear I barely remember one - noen of the visits, none of the days of Stef being home to be there for me, none of those who came to the visitation minus my hockey teams.

I just kept apologizing to everyone else for not being present.

But you helped.

I feel you in everything I do, in every day and every moment.

I'm okay, Brad.

I'm as okay as I ever will be without you.

I will do big things, just as you had told me I would.

I just hope that wherever you are you are okay too.

I miss you.

And I'll miss you until my dying days.

"Whisper words of wisdom, let it be..."

Terminal Romance

"What's your favourite song?" he had asked. "Your favourite song, ever?"

It was February, 2020. We had just begun and I had just gotten home from visiting Stef in Edmonton. It was a big trip - my first tattoo and the best I had felt in ages.

"Terminal Romance by Matt Mays," I had answered. "I would argue it is one of the best Canadian songs ever written."

And he reveled me with stories of singing Matt Mays with his friends, at parties, and when he was at home alone.

We both loved Matt.

"Broke the winter's back and split for the sun,
Shot through the night from a frozen gun.
With my eyes to the skies,
And one foot to the ground..."

And it was then that I knew.

But

"I really gotta go...
Away."

We never could have seen it all, really.

All we saw was so much promise ahead of us as he said, "You know, I think there might be another person in this house soon..."

"It's a rough n' tumble come down at the break of day,
Sitting here staring out across the bay.
With that sunrise in your eyes,
There's never really too much to say..."

We never had to say much.

And when I was better from a bout of influenza B we spent a weekend in my little Cove, hiking the trails and walking over the grounds that I had spent every day walking over when I was a kid.

Sitting there staring out across the bay.

"But...
I really gotta go.
Away."

I never thought he would have to go.

He never thought he would have to, either.

No choice in the matter, really.

And as we sat there on those grassy hills, staring at the waves crashing on the rocks that had seen my grandfather drag fish up over them and numerous shipwrecks wash into them, neither of us ever thought he would have to.

Not that soon, anyway.

"'Cause heartbreaks are uncurable,
And I'm up all night,
Stone-faced in New York City
Trying to set things right..."

We had found this pizza place in New York City on Instagram - East Side Pizza - and how C loved it when it was bed time and we'd all watch videos of the cheese stringing, the ridiculous slices, and we had promised that in September we were all going to go.

But just last week I found myself - stone-faced in New York City.

Flying over the ferris wheels, the lights and bridges.

Alone.

"She talks with her hands and she's saying goodbye,
Nobody's gonna' tell me why.
They just say time, time heals all,
But I don't believe them..."

I never, in a million years, thought goodbye would be so soon.

"Time heals nothing, my darling, it just dims," said a widow to me at a hockey game shortly after.

And I felt vindicated in my belief that time heals nothing.

"Now time rolls on religiously, swift and sly,
Bullet train full of souls riding through the night.
Everyone thinks they can slow it down,
I used to be like that before I knew you..."

You cannot slow it down.

God knows I tried.

God.

Religiously, swift and sly.

And as I said when I looked into the eyes of the Catholic minister who came by the day after he died:

"Fuck your god."

"There ain't nothing as dead as a dead romance..."

Nothing.

Nothing feels as cold and dead as when the light is stripped from your life and their heart stops beating.

Nothing.

Because on that night mine did too.

"Nothing more alive than the city tonight..."

And yet everything keeps moving.

New York City was as bright as I had always imagined it - just not as vibrant. It was missing the soul of how I had imagined it.

"Storefront windows reflecting me,
Where my steel cut heart can feel the electricity..."

Steel cut.

That is how my heart feels now.

How ironic that the next tattoo you had planned was the steel cut heart from the Terminal Romance cover, to both express how you felt about the music but to also immortalize how we had connected.

"Look at me now, whose gonna take me there?
From this lighting and the thunder and you, the eighth wonder..."

Nobody can, really.

I took myself there - to New York City and I watched the lights dance and the ferris wheel spin like nothing had happened; like the world had not been interrupted and blown up, like everything was normal.

Nothing is normal anymore.

Tonight is Valentine's eve.

We were never big on holidays but you had made a comment about how we would celebrate the next week because we were finally heading to Jamaica on that trip we had sacrificed and saved for.

I had come home that week and there were roses on the counter.

"Who owns the roses?" I had asked as I strolled past to get dinner ready.

"You, sweetness," you had said and held me so tight.

"There ain't nothing as dead as a dead romance..."

But our romance isn't dead, is it?

Just you.

Taken.

And I am left here, trying to make peace with it all.

"She sang rock and roll with the devil..."

And I will if that is what it takes to see you again.

Every night in my dreams you are there.

"I really gotta go,
Away..."

And I know you would have never left by choice.

Matt played your benefit concert.

We met, we hugged and he sang "Drive On" for me as my heart broke.

It was just another moment of connection.

Happy Valentine's Day, Brad.

I love you and I miss you.

41.

This is 41.

There are no lyrics, no songs to relate to, no poetic muses to help carry along these words.

This is 41.

And it all feels so numb.

This time last year, actually the day before, you told me how you would make sure 40 was my best year yet, as we planned a sunny vacation in Jamaica, and you wanted to celebrate.

I had told you if I came home to one more person in the house on that day other than you I was moving out.

And we laughed.

I have never done well with birthdays.

And you obliged, nothing more than dinner from my favourite restaurant, hugs, kisses and the promise that you would do everything in your power to make 40 the best yet.

But the universe had other ideas.

You tried.

It succeeded.

41.

I keep thinking how I am now 41, almost the age you were and will forever be, and I do not know how to process that.

I always joked that I was forever younger but now I will not be.

You are forever 42.

And now I am 41, in the house that is mine but not the house that was supposed to be ours.

41 held so much promise that was not to be.

Birthday wishes roll in and I cannot respond.

I ran today.

My second run since you died.

I know you would be proud and I had to. I had to drag myself out after 12 hours of sleep.

Trips on the road for work take so much more recovery now that you are not there to come home to.

I look at the changes since 40.

Dinner, work, fancy dinners, sunny vacations in Jamaica, nights at home, COVID, promise, offers on our house, your death.

And it takes my breath away more than the smoking habit I picked up the day that you died.

"What do you need?" my best friend asked.

"Cigarettes," I had answered. "Any cigarettes."

And I smoke one after another still looking for the peace or something that helps alleviate the concrete that sits on my chest every day.

I look around this house, the house I had to buy, not the house we were buying.

Not the yellow house on Wells Crescent but this house on Third Street, the one you and your friends grew up in but I did not even know that until later.

The one that holds your ghosts.

The house that has pictures of you but not you.

You should be here.

I have these dreams now.

They are recurring dreams and they will not go away.

Every night I dream of things that happen, of Stef coming home, of speeches and presentations, of weddings (sometimes our own) and you cannot be there.

I can call you but I cannot see you.

You cannot be there but you want to and I dial your number to hear you so sweetly say, "I'm sorry, sweetness, I can't come."

And it guts me.

But at the same time the me in the dream understands, though me who wakes in the empty bed does not and hopes that somehow it is your way of telling me you are watching, that you are proud, but you simply cannot be here because it is out of your control.

I miss you.

I miss you, I miss us, I miss our little family and how everything is so empty now.

Every day is simply a wake up, work, come home, sleep and make it to the next one.

And I wish I could offer something, anything, to the universe to get it all back.

But I cannot.

I wonder what we would all be doing now.

Hockey practice, walks in the neighbourhood, setting up his playroom, getting familiar with the new house, riding in your new car.

But it all came to a halt that night.

Everything ended.

Everything I knew ended.

And I wasn't ready for that.

So I have spent the last year trying to walk through this.

I have given it my all.

And while there are days I had wished I was not here to wake up and feel the pain I know I have to be here to feel and that I have a job to do to let the world know who you were and that you were here.

So I will continue.

Blindly.

I miss you.

I miss our little family and our future.

I know you sent Stanley.

You had told that medium you spoke to through your friend that you would communicate with me through an animal. He lets me know. 

And I thank you for that.

But I would give all of this up to be able to go back to nights in your arms.

This is 41.

In a week and a bit you would have been 43.

And I will never understand a world that took that from you, from us, and made you forever 42.

I'm so tired.

But I will carry on.

I will do good in your name and I will push as hard as I possibly can.

That is all I can do.

And thank you, my love.

You could not overpower the universe and make 40 my best year yet.

But you made 37 until then the most beautiful years imaginable.

Time Will Tell

"I've got blood all over my hands,
In my eyes,
On the strings.

It's pouring out all over all my favorite things..."

Happy new year.

Though there are few things to be happy about and the slightest tinge of joy brings the guilt of being here while you are not.

Not given the chance.

Stolen.

Yet I get to be here.

I get to enter this new year, this new year that had so much promise and the one that we had so many plans for.

Without you.

I get to be here.

Everyone gets to be here.

Except you.

Last new year's eve we ordered takeout, sat and laughed, watched Schitt's Creek and lamented how neither of us really liked going out much, how a glass of wine and those burgers from Bernie's were better than any other celebration.

Then we laughed, pointed at Spillar's Cove on the NTV scroll, kissed at the moment of midnight and said this year was going to be our year.

How there would be so many big things this year.

Yet there was only one big thing.

"My guilty heart is beating faster,
Every time I try to sing.
It seizes up and then my lungs begin to sting.

Only time will tell..."

I'm bad at this without you.

I feel like a shell, something that has been hollowed out that keeps existing and moving but not feeling.

But you made me feel so much.

This was to be our year and the day you dropped me at the airport the look in your eyes showed so much promise.

Then you sent me our yellow house on Nelder and said you couldn't wait for me to come home so we could make that offer.

So I changed my flight.

"Is it written all over my face?
Should I even feel ashamed?
Or is it that early thirties thing, where some guys just go insane?"

Not early thirties but 40.

"I'm going to make sure 40 is your best year yet," you had exclaimed when I lamented how I did not do well with birthdays and never felt accomplished or comfortable enough to celebrate them like milestones, rather than the stark reminders they were.

My best year yet.

A living hell we could not have ever imagined or written if we had tried.

"And the doctors give us lithium, but we're never quite the same,
Do we retreat to younger years to stop the pain?

Well, only time will tell..."

There is no retreating.

"Do you take all of those pills?" my mother asked last night.

Yes.

Three antidepressants, a muscle relaxer, a nerve blocker and a sleeping pill.

To exist.

And these are days and nights now.

"You say there's not a god?
Goddammit I could use a little faith to keep from crawling right out of my skin..."

I am sick of hearing that all of this was "God's plan."

What god could ever allow you to be stolen from this world, all of the good you did and still wanted to do to be taken.

That void.

Who you were.

What god allows that on his or her watch?

"I think it's adding up,
Staying up blowing tombstone powder with the broken hearted liars again..."

So many liars.

And I have had to build boundaries.

Sometimes growing courage for yourself means saying goodbye to those who feed on ensuring you are taken down.

Those who claimed to care, love and take care of me in your absence have often turned to have nothing but malice.

And I will never understand it.

"Oh I think I've had enough,
All my records feel like yearbook pictures,
There's fondness but I can't remember where,
Where I've been..."

Things are so cold now that I can't remember where.

Where I've been.

Who I've been.

Though I was the happiest and most contented I had ever been with myself.

Accepted.

Loved.

Then gone.

"So I'm sharpening my pen,
Shooting the ink into my skin..."

How fitting that my sleeve was finished on the mark of 9 months of you being stolen.

9 months.

How has it been 9 months when I didn't think I could last 9 days?

Those 9 days, these 9 months, have been a blur.

And I wake every morning in a stupor, amazed that another sunrise is creeping through the window and it is time to start again.

9 months.

The compass for the direction you were going to pick me up.

Our last time, though you were always there when the plane landed.

The pocket watch with the time you were taken.

The candle from your sleeve that you loved so much - reiterating that it indicated how precious time was.

The anchor because you were my anchor.

The "silver thorn on bloody rose" for every time you laughed when I played Don McClean's "Vincent" on repeat and rambled about the beauty of the lyrics.

The "Steve McQueen" lyrics - "'Cause this life is only chains, it's nothing like the colours in my dreams..." that hit a bit harder these days.

Finished.

But nothing is truly finished, I guess.

I need to push forward, learn to live around it, and carry you with me.

And I will.

I will continue to try and fill the void left in the community by your unnecessary exit.

And until my dying day I will try and channel your good and your drive to do what I can.

It can all be taken in an instant, can't it?

So I will take you and who you were with me to drive everything I do this year.

Everything.

In your name.

There is nothing else I can do.

"Baby, here's where we begin..."