It took less than two seconds to say the four word phrase, but the moment the words exited my mouth I regretted it. I heard the uncomfortable pause on the other end of the line. I knew exactly how he felt. Life is full of small errors, and I had to laugh internally, because the words weren’t uttered out of ignorance or a lack of empathy. It was out of habit. A natural greeting that is used hundreds of times between friends.

How often when you see someone or call them on the phone do you open with their name followed by “How are you,” or “How ya doing.” It is quite normal for me, but my goodness did I laugh thinking how badly I botched that intro this past Friday morning.

The moment I hung up the phone, the memories, which can invade my brain at the most unexpected times, came flooding in. I heard his laugh. I could see his body hunched over, heaving up and down when he would have one of his patented laughing fits. It made me smile. It made me laugh. I needed it. I always need it. Love never stops. It falls and rises at different times, and even 26 years later, it can fill my heart when I need it the most.

Twenty-six years ago today, my father, William Arthur Gregor, passed away suddenly at the age of 56. He had a massive heart attack in his car at a red light. Dad lived a decently healthy life. He had quit smoking a few years earlier, rarely drank, he was active running the farm, but I guess it was his time. I remember vividly where I was on the morning of his funeral. I was sitting in the study of our farmhouse, staring at the wall, struggling to process my emotions.

The day he died was a shock. A blur, but the funeral is where it became final. Two and a half decades later, many moments from that day are still very clear. I remember sitting in the study trying to prepare for the day. It was four or five hours before his funeral. My brother and sister had decided we would each say a few words about Dad, and I was trying to jot down something coherent. I ended up writing bullet points, hoping it could keep me in line.

This past Friday, I called my friend Ken four hours before his father’s Celebration of Life was going to start. I called because I wouldn’t be able to make it due to having a live on location broadcast that day, and I wanted to offer my condolences. My father died on a Friday.

Ken answered the phone, “Hi Jason,” and then I blurted out far too enthusiastically, “Ken, how are you.” My goodness, it was terrible. Sorry Ken. Thankfully, he didn’t hang up, and we had a good chat, but the odd thing was until I called Ken to offer condolences about his father, the amazing Cal Nichols, I hadn’t had many of my usual Dad memories.

Normally, in the weeks leading up to the anniversary of his passing, he enters my dreams or my thoughts during the day. I realized the moment after I hung up with Ken, that the anniversary of his passing was in four days. It snuck up on me, mainly because I hadn’t seen the signs. The past two weeks, I’ve slept like junk. Waking up at 3 a.m. and staring at the ceiling for hours. It happens annually, in the days leading up to his anniversary, and I really don’t know why. I started writing this year’s email on Saturday morning at 5:15 a.m. after I gave up trying to go back to sleep.

Our subconscious is extremely powerful, but even though I believe I’m aware of it, I still miss the signs sometimes when our body and mind are trying to tell us something. I can’t explain why I don’t sleep well in the days, sometimes weeks in September, but I’ve read about “anniversary reactions” where our body remembers past traumatic events.

My father and I had a great relationship. We spent thousands of hours working together on the farm, driving to and from hockey listening to music or to John Short on the radio, wrestling, laughing and luckily enough the odd father/son beer on the couch watching sports together.

On the morning of his funeral, I asked my friends for a favour, and........

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