1. Boots

       Last weekend I drove up to Kamloops for my brother Derek’s birthday. After I spent most of Saturday building Lego spaceships with Ty, my five-year-old nephew, Derek and I stayed up late drinking the bottle of Bushmill’s I’d brought him. On Sunday afternoon as I was getting ready to leave, Derek said, “Those look just like Dad’s old boots.”
       I stared down at my Blundstones. I felt a little dizzy. I hadn’t made the connection before, but Dad’s work boots had been almost identical, with straps to pull them on and no laces. What was functional for him has become fashionable for me. “He even wore them with shorts, remember?” Derek said with that snorting laugh of his.
       One of my feet was still only halfway in its boot, so I bent over to tug it on, and closed my eyes against the tears.
       Minutes later, as I backed out of their driveway, Derek waved from the doorway. Ty, wrapped around one of his legs, didn’t wave; he just watched stoically as I drove off around the cul-de-sac. On the way home to Vancouver, I thought about how I didn’t think about Dad very often any more.

2. Umbrella

       In Vancouver, you can’t trust a clear sky to last more than a few hours, but even though I’ve lived here for ten years, I often forget my umbrella when I go out. I’m sitting in my usual window-seat in the café near my place when the clouds roll in; by the time I finish my Americano, the monsoon arrives. I can’t wait it out because I have to meet the plumber. I consider taking the umbrella in the bucket beside the café door, but then I notice it has a leopard-print design. I scan the café, but I don’t see Princess. I’m not surprised; she never liked slumming around Main Street much. She always preferred Yaletown restaurants and Robson Street boutiques.
       Princess is my ex-girlfriend. We met at the BC Transit Lost and Found department where I work. She was looking for a leopard-print umbrella she’d left on the SkyTrain, but no one had turned it in. She came in four times over the next two weeks to ask about the umbrella. Each time, she stayed longer and chatted, telling me about Korea where she came from, laughing and flipping her hair. Finally, at the end of her fifth visit, she smiled up at me from across the counter and said, “You gonna ask me out or what?”
       Princess broke up with me a year ago. “You’re boring,” she said. “You don’t do anything,” and later, “You won’t let me into your heart.” When I told her I was sorry but my dad was dying so what did she expect, she said, “That’s what I mean. You never even take me to see him.”

3. Moustache

       Who wears moustaches these days? Hockey coaches and politicians, old farmers interviewed on CBC when there’s a crisis with grain or beef. Hardly anyone in Vancouver, although every other type of facial hair is represented. So when the plumber has a big walrus moustache, I feel it’s okay to be intrigued by it, to be drawn to it, to stare at it while he’s talking to me. It’s just like Dad’s, with a little curl at the end of each tip, but it’s not a big handlebar or something crazy like that.
       After a while, the plumber stops talking to me. Maybe he thinks I’m gay since I’m staring at him so intently. I should tell him it’s nothing like that. I really want to ask him how long it takes to grow a moustache that thick? Does it itch? Does food get caught in it? Did he grow it because his father had one?
       I don’t ask any of those questions. I leave him to his work and go sit at my computer. With my headphones on, I listen to the drums and bass tracks I recorded last night and turn to my synth to work on the melody line. Later, I notice a presence in the doorway. It’s the plumber. I pull off the headphones, and he says he’s finished. I thank him, and he says he can let himself out. When he’s gone, I listen to what I’ve come up with so far. It’s not very good.
       I put on some real music and look through all the photos of Dad on my hard drive, but the only ones I have are from after he got sick, after he shaved it off.

4. Camera

       Dad moved in with Derek’s family a month after the diagnosis. Mom died when I was young, and Dad never remarried, so there was no one else to take care of him. He stayed at Derek’s right to the end.
       I bought a digital camera right after he told us he was sick. I went up to Kamloops at least once a month and took lots of pictures while I was there. I’d get the photos printed out as soon as I got home and mail them to Derek. The next time I’d visit, I’d see some of my photos on their fridge door. The others formed a stack on Dad’s bedside table.
       He died during the week. I was working. I’d been planning on driving up for the weekend, but when I got home from a late movie on Thursday night, there was a message from Derek saying Dad was going. I left early the next morning, but I was too late. He died while I was on the way. My cell-phone rang at the crest of the Coquihalla while I was in line at the toll-booth. I knew it was Derek before I answered, and I knew why he was calling. I held it together until I paid the toll, and then I pulled over in the wide open area after the booth, parked behind a tractor trailer, and cried.
       Later, when I looked in the bedroom that had been Dad’s for his last year, I felt surprised. I don’t know whether it was because Dad’s wilted body was no longer in that bed, or because it was just Derek’s guest room again. I’d slept in that room many times before Dad moved in, and I knew I would again. I stayed for almost a week because of the funeral, but I slept on the couch in the living room. I told Derek I wanted to be out by the woodstove.
       In my rush to leave Vancouver, I forgot my camera, so I didn’t have it at the funeral. That’s why the photos in my computer end three weeks before his death. The last one is a shot of Ty showing Dad his latest Lego creation. Dad’s eyes are focused on his grandson. I remember after I took the photo, I said goodbye from the doorway. “Drive safe,” Dad said, smiling up at me. “See you next time.”

5. Microphone

       Princess and I went out for two years. Early on, when things were great between us, I asked her to teach me some Korean, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to improve her English, although it was nearly perfect apart from her accent. The only time I got to hear her speak her own language was when we went out to Korean restaurants, which we did at least once every couple of weeks. She’d order the food without telling me ahead of time what it was. It was always amazing. I think the worst part of breaking up with her was giving up Korean barbecue.
       Princess had a beautiful singing voice, though she didn’t think so. Sometimes she sang to me late at night while we were lying in bed after sex. She sang songs she learned growing up, folk songs and children’s songs, and then told me their stories. That was the only other time I’d hear her speaking Korean.
       I wrote some songs for her, and I bought an expensive microphone because I wanted to record her singing the lyrics, but she refused, giggling in embarrassment at the idea of being recorded. I recorded my own voice singing the songs, but they never sounded the way I wanted them to in my head. Lately, I’ve been thinking of selling the microphone on eBay.

6. Razor

       Derek didn’t want Dad’s razor, so I took it. It’s an older style that uses thin, rectangular Wilkinson Sword blades, which I was surprised to discover are still sold at drugstores. You twist the handle to open two little doors at the top where you load the blade. I tried it when I came home after the funeral. I was scared I’d cut myself, but actually, I really liked it.
       Dad used to shave in the evening after work when he had choir practice at church. Church had always been my mom’s thing, but then after she died, Dad kept going. Derek and I stopped going as soon as we were old enough to stay home alone. Dad never pushed us to go, although he always insisted we attend the Christmas Eve service. We even had to get dressed up. I actually liked going at Christmas, but I pretended not to. I liked singing the carols, especially the ones with nice harmonies. I loved the feeling of the men’s tenor and bass resonating under the women’s higher voices. I did my best to sing harmony, but not really knowing how to read music very well, I kept bouncing back to the melody.
       Derek always said Dad was in the choir to meet women, but that must not have been the case, since he never had any relationships, at least none that we knew of. He just enjoyed singing, I guess, although there must have been a social aspect to it, too.
       There is a choir in my neighbourhood that performs a couple times a year in the Community Centre. I’ve seen notices around saying, “Newcomers Welcome,” but I don’t think I’m a good enough singer to join it. I keep meaning to go hear them perform, but it seems like whenever I hear about one of their concerts, it’s already happened.

7. Keys

       I’m in front of my building when I realize I’ve lost my keys. I search my pockets and root through my bag. I must have had them this morning when I left for work, but after that, I don’t know. I took the bus and SkyTrain to work, so it’s not like I locked them in my car or something. They must have fallen out of my coat pocket on the bus. At least I’ll know if they turn up in the Lost and Found. But that doesn’t help me tonight.
       I remember, suddenly, that Princess never returned my keys after we broke up. I call her on my cell—I still know her number by heart. It goes right to her voicemail. The message is still the same one that used to send shivers down my spine in our early days when my calls had to do with arranging our next date. I stammer out an apology for calling her out of the blue, tell her I’ve lost my keys and that I’m on my way over.
       I hail the first taxi I see, and we’re at her building in the West End in under twenty minutes. Princess hasn’t called me back, so I try her number again as I get out of the cab. Right to voicemail. Someone coming out of her building holds the door for me. I take the steps to the second floor two at a time and then knock on her door. It opens, and there she is, on the phone. She’s surprised, I can tell, which means she hasn’t heard my message yet. We stand in the doorway for a few seconds, not saying anything, and then the voice on the phone regains her attention and she motions for me to come in.
       Her place is the same as I remember, but the frames that used to hold pictures of us now have photos of her family and girlfriends—no new men, I notice. Then she’s off the phone, and I tell her why I’m there. Yes, she still has my keys. She gets them for me, and I thank her. I move to leave, but she touches my arm, so I turn back to face her. “How’s your father?” she asks.
       I tell her he died four months ago. Her lips purse and her eyes soften and her hand tightens on my arm. I imagine I can feel its warmth through my coat and the shirt sleeve underneath. “I’m sorry,” she says, and then again with a slow shake of her head, “I’m sorry.”

8. Heartbeats

       Standing in the open doorway of Princess’s apartment with her hand on my arm and her words still in my ears, I sense the future open up in front of me. A week from now, will she be sitting next to me in my car as we drive to Kamloops so I can introduce her to my brother’s family? Will I point out the spot near the tollbooth where I cried? When we get to Derek’s, will Ty look up at her with a serious face and ask her if she really is a Princess? Will I show her the photos from all my visits and take her to Dad’s grave?
       Will we apologize to each other and make love in a frenzy to make up for all the lost nights, for the lost year? Will she sing to me in Korean and tell me the story of the song as I push my nose into her thick, black hair, and kiss her neck? Will I feel her pulse quicken in her throat, under my lips, hear her heart beat when I rest my ear on her chest, feel my heart race when she moans my name?
       Standing in her open doorway with tears stinging my eyes, will I say to her, “I’ve been so lost.”