Not Without You

one

Leo

I used to love rainy days. It would make me feel serene, become the unconditional me.

But it wasn't only the mere raindrops that soothed me. It was the whole mesmerizing phenomenon; the very science of precipitation and the gears of the Earth. Rain used to dissolve the callow notions of wrongdoings and outrights, bringing me to peace and reminding me of the charisma Mother Nature holds.

There was also something about the coziness of hiding inside a baggy sweater and thick socks, a cup of tea resting on the coffee table and the tattered, yellowing pages of my dad's favourite book on my lap. The drowsy, dreamy way a day of playing cards with my mom and my grandpa could pass.

That was before I arrived in Whistler and dumped my belongings at Aunty Tenille's house. Before I pulled over on the side of the road to see my dad's memorial, located on the corner of the hairpin turn where he was struck by a drunk driver and killed.

With his favourite book in hand, the same crinkled piece of paper still folded between the pages, I stare at the white cross that's been nailed to the thick, mossy trunk of a cedar tree. The cross itself is beginning to yellow around the edges, the paint peeling and the wood splintering. At the base of the trunk are several years of flower petals, ranging from dead and decaying to merely a few days old.

I wipe away a drop of water that's managed to slip down my cheek. Whether it's from the heavy, alpine rain or the dreadful feeling that's taking hold of me, I'm not entirely sure.

After all these years of hearing stories from Mom and Grandpa about my dad, it's difficult for me to be here, to solidify the fact that I will never meet him.

I lift my head, tilting my face to the sky as I remove the piece of paper from the book. For years, I've kept this book, brought it everywhere with me, read it a million times. I even dropped it in the Atlantic Ocean once. But, even after all this time, I have never read what's on this piece of paper. Nor has my mom told me exactly what it is.

Back in June, on the day I graduated from high school, I vowed that I would take a year off and return to Whistler to explore where my mom and dad were raised and all the history between them. I also vowed that, when I visited this spot, rain or shine, I would finally unfold the paper and reveal its contents.

Wiping away the wetness on my cheeks, I open the book and remove the weathered paper. My hands shake as I unfold it, droplets of water and mist dampening my skin and the paper.

If Mom hadn't told me the details about the night Dad died, I would expect this letter to be addressed to me and include some type of message that would tell me to live my life to its fullest potential, to fall in love, and to never give up on my dreams. But I know Dad didn't have time to do that. He didn't even know that Mom was pregnant when he died. That being said, Mom didn't find out until later, either, but that's not my point. My point is that he simply didn't have the time.