Not Him. Not Now.

This was meant to be the summer of progress.

New systems, new structure, new home, new routine. A new rhythm to life for all of us. A proper house this time, one that came with more than one bedroom for the four of us, a solid roof, floorboards that didn't screech under pressure. It was supposed to be a summer of painting walls and building garden beds. We had planned to flourish this season.

July came like a wave of cold soup, grey and heavy, spilling onto everything and leaving us cold and damp with disappointment and frustration. The soil pools with every step, soggy and oversaturated with the rain.

It rained for twenty-three days straight.

Inside, the drywall seemed to sag where it should stand firm. The windows seemed to be sweating from the weight of the water. We made lists; fix this, paint that, patch the part that we had to cut out to fix the leak. Don't forget to schedule the car for a service appointment, touch base with the client that ghosted us in June, collect payment for the work done, make sure the mouse traps are set and ready. Instead, all of these tasks blurred into the weather, made worse by autoimmune disorders and feeling trapped inside the house. Every corner of our life felt like it was waiting on something that we couldn't put our finger on, no matter how many boxes we unpacked.

The only thing we can rely on is that time keeps moving without human hesitation. And it was marching him to the edge.

My grandfather.

The text showed up on a Friday. Wedged between coffee and site reports, my mom, his daughter, let me know. "They need to drain the fluid from his lungs again," the message read. "He's back on the diuretics, and they're going to scan his heart on Monday. He's tired this time."

This time.

He was always a force to be reckoned with. A walking legend in every sense. A Green Beret sniper, the kind of man that his squad spoke about in hushed tones and nicknames. Said he could disappear between trees, wait three days without blinking, and fire the single shot that mattered. He was the man who went into the hole, the solitary confinement for the kind of men who didn't flinch, he came out stronger than when he went in. Fortitude of spirit, fortitude in body. It didn't matter that they gave him the bare minimum of bread and water; he worked out until they finally released him. When he finally left Germany, it was because of a single punch, an ill-timed jump scare on a man who loved his rum, that killed a squad member who thought he could take him on.

As it turns out, my Grandfather was the biggest man in the room, and not the target for proving how strong you are.

Pushups and grit. That was his magic.

He was mine.

He taught me how to train dogs and horses, how to till the garden, how to find the moment between heartbeats before you pull the trigger. He taught me how to find stillness in a world of commotion and noise, how to fight without fists. He taught me about the Mi'kmaq warriors in our bloodlines, carrying the legends and stories of the tribe. How the colonists wouldn't know that our ancestors had surrounded their village until bodies dropped to the ground. He taught me the legend of the white buffalo, telling me that the generations like mine, the mixed kids, would be the ones who would return the lands to the peaceful way of life.

He walked me through the woods, pointing out the scars on the trees that were older than Canada, showing where our people would have cut the branches to carry out canoes. He spent days teaching me about how our people walked between worlds, how the warriors weren't just the ones with weapons, but the ones who carried the memories and traditions that kept us alive. He wore the regalia of Chief with pride and power.

Now, that memory thins. His body slows. His voice, once this thunderous, powerful booming sound, has turned to gravel. Still strong. Still him. But... less.

I don't want less.

Across the country, my life continues. We battle the rain and the rust. I hold my family together as a domestic warrior, through gritted teeth and calendar reminders. I serve them, making meals, cleaning house, offering comfort and love. I advocate for the family I made, no matter the cost. My partner, he works from sunup to sundown, and when he returns home, the weight he carries settles into the walls and floorboards like smoke from a sage bundle. His parents keep the smile on their faces, even as their life shakes to pieces.

But I can't shake the feeling that something enormous is slipping through my fingers, sliding through the gaps in field trips and mortgage payments.

We could book the flight. We could max out the credit card. We could stretch the food we have, skip the insurance payment for a month, and just go. But I know where this ends. I know that life in that province will snake it's way around my ankles and pull me back in. That I'll become the full-time Granddaughter again, the talk of the small pond I left for wider waters. I'd become the caretaker and keeper of stories, the translator for pain and worry. That I'll have to seal the hatches from prying eyes and forked tongues. I've done it all before.

And yet... I want to. Dear Creator, I want to.

He's not just a man. He's the man. The one who taught me to cut away the pieces that don't serve us, but to honor them with tobacco as we return them to the earth. That when the mind stills, that life is over, so find something new to learn from every day. Who sat with me while I was small and scared, and told me that I am sacred, I am deadly, I am enough. That I would change the world, even if it was just my own. Our people survived, and so would I.

Because we are still here.

But if he goes... I don't know what I'm surviving for.

I sit with the anticipatory ache in my bones, waiting in the moments between moments. When the laundry is going, and the invoices have been sent, and the kids are tucked in with full bellies and warm blankets to shelter them from the damp. When everyone else is asleep, but despite my exhaustion, I'm awake and staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain drumming on the roof in an ancient funeral march.

It wasn't supposed to be this summer.

Not him. Not now.

He's been through worse than this. He's stood toe-to-toe with death and laughed. He's taken hooves to the chest, beatings in the field, given them back, and then walked away from a car crash with nothing more than a bruised rib. He kicked the booze like it owed him money, and he never looked back at the bottle. He still goes to meetings a lifetime later, still helping others to stand in sobriety, still reminds them that it's just one more day.

But this... fluid in the lungs. Trouble breathing. His limbs not quite what they were. The heart, his heart, worn thin from a lifetime of carrying too much.

So, I create a mental list. The things I want to ask him, the stories I want to hear him tell just one more time. The story of the dog that showed up at his door, and who never left, serving this mountain of a man faithfully until his dying breath. The white buffalo. The words of the Elders passed down. The recipe for mussels and lobster and skunk meat stew that only tasted perfect when he made it.

Then I hide away in the basement, telling my family "I just need to go down and paint for a while," and bawl into the paint bucket until the white paint looks more like the grey in the skies of this horrible July.

He was supposed to live forever.

He was superhuman.

This summer was supposed to be hard. But not like this. It was supposed to be building something up, not watching it crumble. It was supposed to be fixing leaks and unpacking boxes, clearing out the old to make room for the new. It was supposed to be laughing over beers that aren't mine and serving chicken that might be slightly overcooked.

It was supposed to be life, not limbo.

Maybe that's what summer is; the liminal space between who we used to be, and who we are going to become when the rain stops, and the call finally comes.

Whatever happens, I have to figure out how to keep going.

Even if it's without the man who made me believe I could.