My Dad died two weeks ago. Suddenly. We were on estranged side of the relationship curve. Since my sister called me that Saturday afternoon, after I had just finished a dance class, and was about to eat at Udupi, I've travelled many miles literally and figuratively. At that morning's dance class we had done an exercise of dancing carefully with an angel, to commemorate and celebrate a "full of life, woman loving" man friend of Samira's who had recently died. I must have had a premonition of my father's passing, because he was in my mind when I held his spirit cupped in my hands and held it aloft to wave it free. Hours later, emotionally obliterated, in Calgary, my sister and I arranged to have his remains transferred from the coroners office to the crematorium. He was explicit in his instructions about the disposal of his remains; no funeral, plain box, witness the cremation. I was still in my dance clothes. I had brought a pair of hand-knit socks to keep my feet warm on the plane (socks yes, underwear no... I wasn't thinking). We gathered some clothes for my Dad at his apartment and I gave the funeral home my socks, and asked that he be dressed in them. We brought a blanket that was a plaid wool car blanket made in Lachute (probably in the 1950s - I remember it as a kid) so they could wrap him in the event they couldn't dress him, and we also gave him some cigars for the road. Gray tweed sports jacket - check, white dress shirt - check, silk cravat - check, flannel trousers - check, neon orange yellow hand knit wool socks - check.... when does the crying stop?