At the end, you think about the beginning. I remember being at the beach one summer, seeing my dad dive into the lake off a log boom and thinking, "I didn't know he could swim." I remember him laughing 'til he cried as we drove down to Victoria listening to a sketch on CBC Radio about two out-of-work English teachers turned bank robbers arguing over the wording of the hold-up note. I remember him trying to explain what "squared" and "cubed" meant one warm summer evening, and the smell of his cigarettes, and how he gave me piggy-back rides up to bed, and how he withdrew into himself after my sister died. I remember him dumping his broccoli onto my plate at the dinner table when my mum's back was turned, and his handwriting, and walking beside him to school in the morning when the air was so damp that I could feel tiny drops stinging my face and everything was still possible.

Goodbye, dad. I'm going to miss you so much.

Robert McCole Wilson

Robert McCole Wilson
February 7, 1934 - September 22, 2015