My dad played hockey with you every saturday night.
I once went to your house on a junior high youth retreat.
My friend James McLean came too.
We all played hockey on the lake outside of your house.
Your house was amazing.
A beautiful log cabin driven deep into the brush.
Smells of cedar.
Your daughter showed us some of her claymation films.
We drank hot apple cider with matted toque hair.
I only ever remember you as smiling.
You communed with Nature and pissed off the fundies.
You made great strides towards helping Native Canadians.
You were friends with Bruce Cockburn.
You lived in a canoe for large periods of time.
I heard a rumour that you died from ingesting too much
campfire smoke.
If so - compared to the ailing list of other ugly evils
people can die from, I'd choose that way any day.
I imagine that you're canoeing into a sunset -
somewhere on meech lake.
