regeneration

We walk through old-growth Douglas fir and Garry oak forests. It's October on southern Vancouver Island and overcast, but the big leaf maple's yellow leaves masquerade as the sun.

We hike up a narrowing trail until reaching a viewpoint. I point out the cement plant across the bay. I stand on a boulder and watch our chihuahua tangle leashes with a Bernese mountain dog. I take a picture of you underneath an Arbutus tree. You are smiling.

You think we're haunted by ghosts in my mother's house. The kind of ghosts who weigh themselves after every meal. The kind of ghosts who walk 10,000 steps a day. The kind of ghosts who are easy to point out, but not as easy to pin down.

For breakfast we both had one piece of toast and two eggs scrambled with turkey sausage, green onions, spinach and tomatoes. You had coffee and orange juice. I had water and grapefruit juice. The turkey sausage made our burps stink. We fought after breakfast. I never know what to call a fight to make it sound less harsh. An argument, a disagreement, hurt feelings. We raised our voices. I don't know why it's bad to fight, but know in my bones it's not good. Better to be quiet. Not rock the boat.

I pick up an oak leaf on the Thompson Trail and hear a voice in my head: "Leave nothing but footprints, take nothing but memories." I roll my eyes, "It's a fucking dying leaf," I tell the voice.

The chihuahua is in heaven. Hours of smelling pee and pissing on rocks and salal and the broken boughs of fir trees. He'll be snoring next to the cat on a chair in a few hours.

Last night I opened the closet in my mother's guest bedroom. My father's gold and purple university jacket hung there. It took me by surprise. The closet is half full of dead people's clothes. My aunt's and grandpa's, and now, my father's.

My father went back to university in his 50s. He finished his undergrad and got an MBA. My mother taught English Literature and they met in her class. His first wife was almost dead. I wasn't talking yet. My mother was newly divorced and not even 30. She had long, blonde hair, straight and parted down the middle. She wore big glasses and red lipstick and, in the evenings, colourful kaftans printed with elephants and tigers.

At 305 metres is Radar Dome. I feel like I'm in a sci-fi movie when I see the huge white sphere. My glasses fog up when I look through my camera. I'm starting to sweat, despite the cold. You're ahead and I'm falling behind. Momentarily I'm paralyzed by the sensation of my beating heart.