A Writing Journey

(A few days ago I sliced about why I write. This story is one of the reasons why I write. To try to put words to a life-defining moment. To remember and to let go. To understand a little deeper what happened. To recognize that I will never know. To learn more about myself. I wrote this story, years later, hoping to release something inside of me. I miss you every day, Dad. I will always remember this day. After it, nothing was the same.)

A stranger found my father at the edge of Lake Ontario on the day he died.

The 12-line story on the last page of the Toronto Star’s city section the next day summed it up more precisely:

“The body, described by police as that of an older male, was found in Rouge Park near Lawrence Ave. E. and Rouge Hills Dr. by a passerby at approximately 11:30 a.m.”

At approximately 11:30 a.m., I was walking along a running path about 5 km from where my father was found.

The sun was shining brightly on that first Sunday of May. It was warm. I didn’t need a jacket. My pace was brisk, but at the same time, I forced myself to slow down and look, really look around. I was looking for a sign of my father. I was searching. I was hoping for something, somewhere. I desperately wanted to see him lying on the ground.  Maybe he was hurt or maybe he was unconscious, somewhere in the tall grass. Or maybe he had slipped and hit his head on the rocks, near the creek.

I heard cars, and looked up to the overpass. The bridge cast a shadow. I paused. My heart raced. I thought of my uncle, my dad’s brother, who had died by his own hands decades ago. My father found him on a bridge.

My niece had called at about 10 a.m. that morning.

“You need to come over right away,” she said.

“Grandpa went out for a run. He went out early and he’s still not home. Nonna’s really worried.”

In the car ride to my mother’s house, I replayed my last conversation with my father. We had gone as a family to cheer on my younger niece at a swim meet. We must have appeared like a united cheering section, but the ongoing tension between my parents divided our camp. I sided with my mother that afternoon.

“Com’on Giovanna, you wanna come for a walk with me?” he asked.

“No,” I told him. “I’m going to stay with mom.”

He asked again.

“Com’ on!”  

It sounded like a plea. He motioned for me to come to him. I inched closer to my mother. I saw the disappointment in his face as he walked away alone. But I didn’t care. I was angry at him.

I often wonder what he may have told me on that walk. Did he want to share something? Unburden himself.

At my mother’s house, the neighbours had gathered. One had driven down to the Rouge Beach with my niece to search along the path that hugged the lake. Another walked around the neighbourhood.

When I returned from my search, I knew by the look on their faces that there was no good news. Simply conjecture.

“You know, I did see Joe fall one day along the sidewalk, in front of the house. I asked him if everything was okay,” one neighbour recalled.

It wasn’t the first time in recent months that my father had fallen.

When the police officer arrived about a missing person, his questions to my mother were direct.

“He was up early this morning. I think it was before 6. I was still in bed. He usually goes downstairs to read the newspaper. Then he goes out for a run. It’s his routine.”

“No, this hasn’t happened before,” she said.

Running – or his pattern of jogging slowly for a few minutes followed by many minutes of walking – was an addiction for my father. He went out daily, usually in the morning, and always alone. He said it was good for his head. What he meant was that it was a time and place for him to work things out and clear his head. But he always came home.

When the officer got the call, he left us outside for a few moments. He then called my sister in and told her first. My heart sunk when I heard my niece’s scream. It was confirmation that my father was never coming home.

The officer did not have many details about my father’s death. He wrote out a few phone numbers, and handed them to my sister. Victim Services. The coroner. 43rd Division.

He then added:  “The woman who found your father said she would be willing to speak with you and your family, if you’d like.”

“No,” my sister said. “We’re not interested.”

I have often thought about that stranger. The passerby. In the days following my father’s death, I didn’t have the courage to ask my sister why she didn’t want to speak to that woman. I did want to speak to her then and I still do now. I want to know how she found my father. Was she alone? Was she walking her dog? What did she do when she saw him? Did she feel his body? Was it still warm? How did that day affect her?

The coroner reported that my father died from drowning. But my questions still remain. And I still think about that stranger. The stranger who holds one small piece of the puzzle that is the day my father died.