I realised just how bad Dad's living conditions were about a year after his death. I was talking to a cousin of mine who had recently become a police officer. It’s not often that you get a chance to have a firsthand glimpse into the seedy underbelly of the society you live in. So I jumped at the opportunity, asking for recounts of some of her more memorable highlights on the job.

After describing some interesting car chases and instances in which she had to draw her weapon, she began describing a case where she was called to a disturbance at house in a fairly shady area. The neighbours had heard a questionable noise and were concerned enough to inform the police. My cousin was the one who answered the call and arrived with her partner at the scene.

The morning that I found out that Dad had passed away, I drove over to his house. I knew the process of sorting through his possessions could not wait at all, it had to be done that day.

One of Dad’s neighbours, Jackie, had called to let me know that Dad had passed and that his house had already been robbed. She was distraught. Wailing over the phone, coughing the details out between cascades of sobs. Poor lady, they were so close and now she was stuck living there on her own. She was probably the closest friend that my dad ever had. They would spend hours at each other's house everyday drinking coffee and making art together. Dad of course was her dealer.

On the night of my father’s death, I actually had plans to visit him. If these plans were not changed, I may have been the one to discover his passing and in doing so, prevent his neighbour from breaking in and robbing his lifeless corpse ...