Tonight, February 28th, I turn fourteen and me and Chik are wearing matching Roots hoodies under jean jackets, sitting on Halifax’s Citadel Hill freezing our balls off. Every blare of the harbour’s foghorn shudders beer out of my Alpine can.
One year ago today, or maybe tomorrow, depending on how you count, Dad waited for us to climb Bus 22, then he went to the veranda, turned his plastic blue Adirondack chair to the lawn, and fired. Volunteers hosed the blood-and-brains snow, but for weeks our gutters dribbled pink icicles.
Chik pokes my elbow. “Hey, look up, buddy. At least this ain’t leap year. Let’s go warm up.”
My answer is a long, silent cigarette-frozen-breath cloud. I used to talk, even laugh, never would’ve dreamt of smoking or drinking.
At Dad’s funeral reception, our lousy PE teacher who can’t even sink a layup or free throw, whispered, “Good thinking, though, doing it on the 29th so the kids only have to face the date once every four years. And outdoors is much tidier.”
I heard every scuzzed word from his greasy ham lips and I charged.
Only one brisk shin kick connected the sucker before Chik hauled me off. Does Pukie Pelkey actually think that an anniversary every four years lessens the pain? Grief don’t leap years, dickhead. Maybe leap year mourning is even worse — Dad missing, calendar date missing too.
Every day my guts slick and snake through black freezing fog, at once hungry and full, loving Dad, missing Dad, hating Dad. When, I want to ask Chik, will this ever end, but I don’t. Chik’s as clueless as Pelkey about leap years and shit, but at least he’s here freezing his ass off.
Angela Joynes, a disabled Canadian who publishes short fiction, lives
for laughter and beautiful words. What more needs to be said?
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