The sun has risen. Just over the hills to the east. The warmth of the sunlight makes a little headway against the chill that lingers into the mid-spring. These days, I wake up early. In the front yard, the weeping cherry tree stands in solitude, with the wholeness of foliage the spring has bestowed upon it. It is a beautiful morning. The chilling wind bites. As I move inside, the stillness reminds me of what has just happened. I am now in the room where my dad slept when he visited me. There is a part of the wardrobe where I still keep his clothes for his next visit. The visit that will not happen. As the grief creeps up on me, I reflect on what has been. What I had was beautiful. A beautiful dad. A loving dad. A dad who had forgone many of his life's comforts in favour of his family's. A dad who had annoyed me as frequently as I had him, and still found each other's company pleasant. My dad was imperfect. He has made some poor choices. His loose association with social nor...