Father

The other day I interviewed my dad. It went something like this.

“Being a musician has always meant struggling with empty rooms and surviving off of tip jar money, and the past few years of economic upheaval have caused a lot of turmoil for musicians,”

he said,

“There are fewer opportunities for local acts to succeed… While the pandemic is over and live music has returned, rising costs have closed many of the affordable spaces for performance, rehearsal and living which artists depended on. 
Toronto has many great venues and artists, and the local music community is tight-knit. You can find concerts of all genres from classical to rock to country to electronic to reggae to hip-hop and more across the city. There are also many performances of traditional genres from across the world, due to our large population of immigrants.” 

Like my father, I am an angry person. He is never loud, though. He sees and he remembers, and when you are well and sure he has forgotten he can use the smallest thing against you. My father is a quiet man. He will sit in the corner with his head in his hands. He will cry over his dead mother while he takes you from yours. So it goes.

Today it was the kind of snow that lays on grass like powdered sugar and not like cotton, the kind that turn to water against windshields but still freezes the tips of your ears. When I see my father drink my stoumach churns. My father is not a drunk, but when my mother was five months sober he gifted her whiskey for her birthday. I am not sure if it was whiskey. When my mother was sober my father tried to kill her. So it goes. I am a quiet drunk, and when I see my father drink my stoumach churns. He is 39 years old.

Soon, my father will be old.