I didn't realize it was 6 months.
Not right away.
Not when I was brushing the dust off my clothes. Not when I climbed onto the back of an ATV to join the Canada Day parade.
Not when the firetruck blared its horn in front of us and the RCMP truck followed behind, its presence loud - horns, sirens and engines, heavy and constant like a warning no one could hear clearly.
I almost forgot Johnny.
That truth hits me sideways.
Because HOW?! How could I forget someone who shaped Kimmirut for me? How could I forget a soul like that, who still lives in quiet corners of this town? Who is remembered in laughter, in the children playing, in the way we say nothing, but know?
But I didn't forget him.
I just didn't feel it until later.
It was during the parade. The roads were dry and dusty - no water truck watered the roads this year for the parade. I couldn't see properly because my glasses had broken, and somehow that made sense too.
Everything was blurry.
People waved. Kids ran around in glee, waving at each person in the parade. ATVs revving, the firetruck in front and the RCMP truck sirens was so loud that it was almost numbing.
We were all pretending this was normal.
That this day - Canada Day- was something to celebrate.
But I felt it.
Even before I even remembered.
Even before I saw his picture again.
Even before I saw the post his girlfriend Jenny shared. That's when it hit me.
Of all days... 6 months to the day. On this day.
No wonder it felt heavier.
Not only because of Johnny.
But because this holiday, this colonial day, stands for something else entirely when you grow up Native, when you grow up here.
It's not just free food, games and draw prizes.
It's a reminder of what's been taken.
And for some of us, what can never come back.
I remembered when I saw someone look at me and say, simply:
"Thank you by the way."
We both knew why.
We didn't need to say more.
It was the first time we had glanced at each other since I gave that person a hand written letter.
And maybe that's why it came rushing back during the dice games, in eating burgers and hotdogs outside in the same presence with kids.
Not in a breakdown. Not in a scream.
But in stillness.
In the feeling of being alone while holding a slice of cake.
In walking through a crowd and realizing the people you wanted to share it with were already somewhere else.
That's how grief hits now.
Not like a thunderclap - but like a whisper that takes its time.
I didn't forget Johnny.
But I l almost did.
And that's what scared me. I panicked. I cried until I fell asleep to nap. People'd out from this "celebration".
It's not guilt I'll carry - just a reminder.
That even when I don't feel him every moment,
he's still part of how I move.
Of how I write.
Of how I love.
And maybe, just maybe,
He wanted me to live today too. 💜
