It’s just 8 hours after my father’s death, close to 24 hours before the whole thing started. I’ve had maybe 1 hour of sleep, stolen on a couch in the ICU waiting room around 4am. I’m headed towards Da’s apartment to meet up with my two other brothers and sister to start the whole process of sorting, finding and …processing.

My phone rings as I’m about to turn the corner of the street where the apartment is.

“Hi.” Pause. “Is this… Ted?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“It’s Pamela, I’m the property manager from… your father’s…”

“Building?” I offer.

“Yes. I. You’ve heard… I mean.”

“Yes. My father passed away this morning.”

The flood gates are open and the words rush out: “Oh I am very sorry about this. We know Edward was a new tenant but he seemed like such a lovely man. There are a couple questions I have regarding the people going into the unit.”

“I’m right outside, can we continue this conversation in person?”

“Of course!” We hang up and I enter the management office. Despite a shower, fresh clothes and a stolen 20 minute nap, I still look like a car hit me. She’s a bit taken aback.

“Yours was the emergency contact info we have on file. We’re concerned that there are a lot of people entering the unit.”

“We’re a large family,” I offer, trying to keep it light.

“Well we’ll need a signed letter from the Executors saying they’ll be entering the unit.”

“Of course. I’ll write that up and get all the Executors to sign it. I’ll bring it down for you shortly.”

“And a list of people who may be using the unit… for the security desk,” She adds quickly.

“Certainly, I can go upstairs and confirm with the rest of the family as to who will be around this weekend during the funeral proceedings.”

“And you’ll have to vacate in 30 days.”

“Oh…kay…” I stammer. I offer that my other brother will be taking care of the apartment details and he will come down and discuss the whole situation with her soon.

The wave of anger doesn’t hit me until I’m at the elevator. My father, not even 12 hours gone, is evicted corpus delecti.

We decide that she can take an email, not a signed letter, and I fire one off to her after she’s gone home for the day. We’ll deal with her after the funeral. Fuck you heartless cow.

__________________

My father volunteered at The Gardiner Ceramics Museum. Quite a bit. Like, on average 3 hours a day – that’s a lot for a 78 year old man. He spoke highly of working there: loving the colours and shapes of the contemporary artists and the company of his co-workers too. He would bring home a bowl a day, it seems. Every dinner invitation to his apartment was a new bowl discovery, filled with his nutmeg infused sweet potatoes.

While we’re making preparations for the viewing, my brother had the great idea that since Da was going to be cremated, we should ask his boss if there was a vessel we could use for his ashes. I joked that we’re looking for something from the Ming Dynasty. Nothing too ostentatious.

We make contact with Da’s old boss, she puts us in touch with the manager of the gift shop who tells us to stop by to talk to her.

We show up at the store like a posse: my two brothers, one sister-n-law, my sister and SharkBoy and myself walk into the small gift shop. We’re greeted warmly by all the staff and they begin to say how much they loved my father. It’s concluded with a broad sweep of the manager’s arm across the store. Take a look around. SharkBoy and Michele see a red Raku vase with lid, a vase made with horse hairs seared into the glaze during the pot’s time in the kiln. It’s utterly something Da would have bought for himself yet probably would have balked at the price.  I am sure it’s well over $1000 due to the location within the store. Higher up = higher price. The shelf it was on was nearly touching the ceiling. The volunteer takes it down for us to look at and after quick deliberation, we all decide that this is the perfect vase for Da. My brother reaches for his wallet. The volunteer says no charge.

SharkBoy utters a hiccup gasp. “Oh …god,” he says and leaves the shop fast.

It’s like seeing someone puke. He’s crying so I start crying. I leave the store less quietly, trailing sobs like water balloons. Outside we grab onto each other.

“He. Would. Have. Loved. It.” SharkBoy says between gasps.

“I. Know! It’s. Beautiful!” I reply in kind.

“I can’t believe they’re giving it to us!”

Michele comes out and gives us some tissues. After capping the well, I return to the store, the stoic facemask back on. As I enter, all eyes to me.

I stop. I pause. I smile like nothing happened. With force:

“Thank you!”

Thankfully everyone laughs.