There’s a picture sitting on my desk of my father, my sister, and myself. The photo was taken when I was five and my sister was three. I don’t recall where my mom was at that moment, but the three of us were on the rocky beach outside of the apartment complex we lived in, and it is the last picture taken by, and of, my father. He was 28 years old and died a few weeks later; we didn’t have the film developed until months after he had passed. This picture clearly shows that we were family and happy to be together.

I have other photos of my father and in those days personal video recording wasn't uncommon, so I know what he looked like but there’s no audio to go with the moving pictures. I have no memory of what his voice was like or how he spoke. People who knew him tell me how much I remind them of him; I share many of his idiosyncrasies and peculiarities. Some are expected, we have similar facial features and body type, while others are more subtle and only people who knew him well would recognize them. The way I hold my cards while playing crib, the way I write my name, the way my eyes are rarely open in a photo, and the way I engage with strangers, especially seniors. I have no reason to doubt them for saying I share these traits, so I choose to believe them. They knew him better and longer than I did.

To be honest, I don’t have many memories of him; there’s the time we tied a string to my tooth and attached one end to the doorknob. I remember being nervous as he told me to slam the door shut, afraid of the pain but excited for the chance to become a “big boy”. The knot was good enough to yank the tooth from my mouth but it must have slipped once the tension was released, as I remember the four of us searching the floor of the apartment for the missing incisor. Another memory was of getting a Timex watch on my fifth birthday, and him and my mom showing me how to tell time on the analog dial. My final memory was the two RCMP officers coming to our door to regretfully inform us he had succumbed to a tragic accident, and wouldn't be coming home again. Ever.

We could have let his death define us – my mom was now a young widow and we were fatherless – but we still had her and she had us. She showed us early on that as long as we had each other, we could overcome anything. Our family was tiny but united. It wouldn't stay tiny, and we've had many differences over the years, but we’re still cohesive and tend to put the fun in dysfunction.

It’s weird to think of your mom as being young, but at the time of his death she was barely twenty. She had two children – one barely out of diapers – no job, no money, and living in a remote community hundreds of miles away from the rest of her family. It must have been a terrifying experience for her, yet I don’t recall her ever complaining about it. She was there for us when we needed her and she did her best to make sure we were taken care of. To this day, I don’t know how she managed, but she didn't have any other options.

My mother remarried twice after the death of my father. The best part about my first step-father was the three siblings he helped conceive. Many fathers lead by example, unfortunately it’s not always a good example. The lessons I learned from him were more in the vein of what not to do. Since I tend to learn by watching, it wouldn't have been surprising had I turned out to be like him. Instead, because I was lucky enough to be surrounded by truly good people, I was able to see the damage done to others through his actions, and I learned there are other ways. Better ways.

It’s easy to conceive a child, but being a father requires skill.

My father was taken from me, but my brothers’ and sister’s father chose to leave them to start a new family. They got some of the typical benefits of an absentee father: obligatory guilt-trips to Hawaii and varying cash injections for birthdays and holidays, with the occasional bit of malformed advice on the rare weekends they’d get to spend with him, but I think they learned quickly that he wanted to move on, and they weren't that important. To him. It’s his loss, as they've all turned into amazing people and have begun raising their own children.

The man I call my father now is patient, understanding, and honest. To be fair, he’s on his third marriage, so he’s not necessarily a quick learner, but I think he’s discovered something from each experience and he brought two more children into our family; over the years they've added more.

A few years ago at my sister’s wedding, I had the opportunity to meet a man who had been friends with my parents. I’d heard of him but hadn't had the chance to meet him. He brought a letter my mom had written a few weeks before my father’s death, describing his newest passion: the canoe that would carry him into the rapids he would never escape. It was an amazing opportunity to discover a side of my parents I had never seen before. Perspective is everything and it was through these two pieces of paper – over two decades old – where I learned they were young and in love. They had a quick wit and a keen sense of humour. They were real people, not just parents.

I remember my mom telling me something I assumed all mothers told their kids, “It doesn't matter as long as we have family.” The older I get, the more I realize the fundamental truth of this. Sure, we've had major blowouts and excessive drama, but we always come together to find a solution and every Christmas we have pretty much everyone there. As the family grows to over thirty people, this alone is a bit of a miracle. My family – the in-laws and outlaws, step-brothers and half-sisters, and every person who tries to make it home for Christmas – is a perfect amalgamation of crazy and amazing. I wouldn't trade them for anything.

Earlier this year I went to my father’s grave for the first time. It had been 37 years since he’d been buried and I wasn't sure how I’d feel. I share my mother’s belief that a grave isn't where the person is, it’s just where their bones are put in the ground. When I finally found his marker, I stood over it with my wife and thought of the people in my life today. The ones who were there for a moment and the ones who stood by me over the years. I tried to remember what he was like, who he was, and what I’d be like if he’d been the one to survive the boating accident, but I can’t help but think I’m better off with the way things turned out.

There are times that I’m sad I didn't get to spend more time with him, if only to learn more about who he was and what he believed. I have no doubt genetics played a big part in forming who I am, but I believe it was the cumulative people in my life – men and women, children and friends – who helped me become the man I am today. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not, but I’m the sum of their guidance and interactions.

The picture of the three of us on that beach sits among an assortment of photos of the rest of the family. I’m now a son-in-law, brother-in-law, uncle, godfather, and a grand-uncle, and I try to live my life as a positive example for the kids. I spend most of my time trying to make sure I’m not the one to blame for screwing them up, but I’m only kidding myself because I know they’ll be screwed up – they’re family, and we’ll all be here to help them get through anything.