So roughly a third of Canada’s population watched the final concert by The Tragically Hip. I imagine it’ll be talked about for some time yet. Lots has been said about what the band has meant to Canadian identity, I’m still processing what a band I’d largely left behind in my post-university days–but still listened to and enjoyed whenever we crossed paths–means to me. All I know for sure was that I wasn’t emotionally up for watching the concert. A feeling I’ll maybe regret in days down the road, not sharing the night with friends, but I just couldn’t do it.

I did stay up, unable to sleep, imagining the perfect set list, and thinking of them playing “Fiddler’s Green.”

His tiny knotted heart
Well, I guess it never worked to good
The timber tore apart
And the water gorged the wood
You can hear her whispered prayer
For men at masts that always lean
The same wind that moves her hair
Moves her boy through Fiddler’s Green