"On the Occasion of True’s Passing" by Erin Noble

Thirty years ago, my best friend John died. In his honour and in my fog of grief, I rescued a beautiful mutt puppy in Montreal, the city where he died. I named her Zoey, Greek for "life". Wanting to be the most excellent of good mummies but having very little money, I found a wee guest house in Los Angeles for the two of us. The structure was more shack than house but, oh, the yard! It was huge, and anchored by an extraordinary orange tree that perfumed my Spring evenings with the most delicate, elegant scent. And every Christmas, those sexy, succulent oranges, finally ripe for the picking, graced my holiday table. 

The clay-packed soil in the yard was a bitch to work with but I managed. I scoured Freecycle and Craigslist for free plants and was amazed by my good fortune. However, it meant digging up seven rose bushes on a particularly blisteringly hot California afternoon (in The Valley, no less), and hauling enormous aloe bushes in the trunk of my sedan, careful to travel down back alleys and side streets because my trunk was too full to close and I was afraid the police might stop me. Eventually, I rescued three more beautiful mutt puppies and, of course, they rode along, air conditioner blasting, so there was simply no room for the plants inside the car. 

We did this for years. And years. And years. Over time, through dint of hard work, love for my babies, and my complete adoration of all things "nature", I had created Eden. My Eden. My perfect, happy place. Just me, my dogs, my oranges and roses, and a honeysuckle vine right outside my bedroom window where, late one evening while gathered around my outdoor fire pit, both of us high on hash, a friend taught me how to gently suck the nectar from the blossom. It was one of the most sensual experiences I think I've ever had. I also adored my scarlet trumpet vines that looped through the hurricane fence, the orange and yellow canna lilies that, once rooted, miraculously spread themselves out along the side of my neighbor's periwinkle garage. The verboten but glorious giant bamboo stalks that snaked from under my neighbor's fence, providing the perfect green privacy screen. 

Oh, and tea. Always, always a cup of bancha tea. Oftentimes, I'd find myself singing Cohen's lyrics from "Suzanne" as I indulged in tea and oranges - though mine didn't come all the way from China. At night, my dogs, Zoey, Liam, Kipp and True, would sit on the lawn furniture and watch for possums scooting along the telephone wires while I'd lie flat on my back on the patio, gazing at the stars.  

Did I mention the birds? Dammit, it was a 24-hour assault! God knows what species were chirping away during the day but all night long there was always a lone Mockingbird that refused to sleep. He'd only stop his racket when a Mourning Dove cooed just before dawn broke. Eventually, thankfully, the bird noise became the adorable soundscape of my day, soothing my nerves left frazzled by weekdays spent at jobs I loathed. My dogs, my garden, my Eden, became like a smooth rock I'd pop in my pocket for comfort and touch periodically throughout the day to remind myself that I was a soul of nature, not a cog in the wheel of corporate America bleeding my days away in an airless cubicle. 

But time passes. And, as the Buddhists annoyingly insist, everything changes, nothing remains the same and so....and so. And so Zoey died in 2010. And I became sick in 2011. Liam died in 2014. I could no longer work. I lost my Eden,and moved back to Toronto. Grateful, of course, but wounded beyond belief. I fear sometimes, beyond repair. Kipp passed in 2018 and now, my last little man, True, passed three weeks ago. I have a small, rent-controlled apartment with a view from my front windows of a huge brick building. I'm right downtown. Folks tell me they'd kill to live so centrally located in The St. Lawrence Market area. Farmer's markets every day, an antique market every weekend, outdoor bands, local streets closed off to traffic so pedestrians can lounge among the picnic benches strategically placed along the cobblestone streets so folks can eat their local goodies while they ‘people watch’. Today, they were giving away free ice cream on Market Street. 

Yet my heart is broken. My babies are all gone, my Eden is no more, and I'm desolate and despairing - no amount of free ice cream or cobblestone streets is going to change that. 

I know I'm not unique in this. I know we've all been touched by loss, change, and disappointment. However,  I'm not resilient. I'm not a "bounce back" kinda gal. On the contrary, I'm more of a shatter-at-the-slightest-bump-in-the-road kinda gal. I know it has a lot to do with my childhood. And, again, I know I'm not unique in this. But, hey, I have some major abandonment issues that, despite my best efforts, have failed to resolve or heal.

My mother left us for a new life and moved far across the country when I was a young adolescent and we never talked about it. We simply weren't allowed to.  Across the country eventually became out of the country, determined as she was to wash her hands of us completely.  

My father decided that he, too, needed to escape the responsibilities of child rearing, so he took that summer off - and every subsequent summer - to tour Europe on his own. Winters he spent skiing...somewhere. I'm sure he must have told us where but I can no longer recall, it's all a haze.  My father's presence in the house was so remote that I referred to him as That Man.  That Man who remained barricaded behind his newspaper when I stood at his knee, age six, trying desperately to impress him with my nascent reading ability.  That Man who gave me Valium when my mother left because talking to me was too intimate.  That Man who, when I left home at 17 and my brother asked him if he missed me, replied, "Out of sight, out of mind".  And you know, we didn't talk about any of that, either.  It was as though that's just what parents did - leave; or remain present, yet absent. 

That infamous, caustic, WASP repression was the culprit, no doubt, so I didn't make any attempts at Truth and Reconciliation with my parents until I was well into my 20s. And, oh, the Humanity! It was the Hindenburg every time. Epic crash and burn. The response was always absolute denial - or wailing tears. But never compassion or curiosity or contrition.

And I mention all of this now, right now, because at this moment I'm really missing my Eden. Without it, life has been pretty fucking stark. Eden - nature, dogs - has been a soothing parent. A respite. A place where I feel understood and connected. A soft place to land.

A friend recently gave me the beautiful gift of a visit to her palatial treehouse of a  cottage, built by her talented partner, tucked away beside a gorgeous lake on Vancouver Island. We had a wonderful two weeks whale watching, drinking apple cider, loving on her five dogs (thank you, Rollo, for the morning kisses), admiring her dahlias and daisies, playing Yahtzee and smoking wicked marijuana. They were terrific hosts and so patient with my grief.

But I've come home to True's ashes in a burlap bag on my dining room table, his bed untouched, and a living room littered with heartfelt sympathy cards and a plethora of my snotty tissues.  I just can't stop crying. I'm writing about it all here and now because, if I don't, I'll scream. I'll lose my mind. I'll fall off the edge of the earth.

Hold your fur babies close tonight. Nourish those gorgeous flowers in your garden. Never abandon your children. And rest in the knowledge that nature heals. It's alive, its pulse mirrors our heartbeats because we belong to each other.

Erin started acting professionally as a young adolescent, only recently discovering the profound relief and release of writing her own stories.  She lives in Toronto.