I went to visit my father in the afterlife: in the hills of New Hampshire. That seem like driving from Spokane to Nelson, BC. My father has learned to play guitar from a cedar tree and become very good at it. My father has been riding his motorcycle to Nova Scotia, standing on ridges, looking out over the sea. Swimming a lot. Building houses. Repairing houses. Clearing out buildings in order to hang art. My father was wearing his cowboy hat and grinning his grin, smoking rolled cigarettes. I got him high, but he doesn’t need it anymore. He is in the mountains. He is singing.