winter ghost 2.jpg

Winter almost ghosted us here …

As we creep alongside the start of a new month, there is finally a tiny white cupcake frosting layer on the ground.

Typically by this point, the Okanagan Valley has reliably weathered through a bum-chilling cold snap (or two) where the temperature slips downwards to -15C, occasionally even -18C or so.

Even though the temperatures haven’t dipped much below -5C this season, and snow has been virtually non-existent, the vistas outside my windows are at long last those that resemble true winter. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas….

It’s in these greyer days of winter when my mind absorbs the darkness and wanders to the family and friends and acquaintances whose footsteps can no longer be heard treading the halls of real life.

In many ways, it’s surreal, like maybe they never truly existed, like whispers in the forest.

I know they did, but it still feels dreamy, water slipping between my fingers.

I had grandparents and parents, aunts and uncles, in-laws, neighbours and friends; real fleshy, imperfect people who lived the same as me, ones that breathed and worked and fucked and worried and laughed and shit and sweat and dreamed…

moon dream

I dreamed of my boyhood friend Frank the other night.

When Frank died in a motorcycle accident in 1989 (age 32) I sobbed my memories and smiles and worries as I read the mournful letter his Mom sent me.

Her writing was a grief-laden waterfall of tears in words.

I washed over that painful parapet along with her in the bittersweet memory of youth lost. Heartbreak poured across the page from her pen.

I once saved Frank from the certainty of high school suspension when he was falling down drunk at a Grade 11 dance … we played touch football in the summer and street hockey beneath winter street lights … he and I shared a strange enjoyment of growing Venus Flytrap plants … he trounced me regularly at chess and ping-pong matches … we ate up the love in his Mom’s Hungarian cooking whenever – day or night – we walked through the door to his house … we consoled each other when our hearts were broken by pretty young attractions …

Thirty years on, and he, and others, still live inside me, the laughter and the tears.

We all carry an inner vision of those who mattered to us and are gone, those who were a part of shaping us from rough pieces of clay … I never met 3 of my 4 grandparents and yet I still envision them as components of my real world … a puzzle piece in my creation.

When I play my guitar quietly in the dim light of wintry evening darkness, my mind and heart wander the bygone roads where so many have travelled, where so many have faded into the fog.

These lives are the profusion of faces and voices I’ve known or known of … those whose memory lamp is burning low but not yet extinguished … within me.

candle burning