She labors up the trail
backpack filled with decades
of travel on two feet.
Her poles tick
in slow synchrony
with crunch of careful footfall.
She pauses often to drink
from water bottle
and from sky.
She reaches the crest,
unties her boots,
discards diminished
human form,
fastens her soul
to a passing butterfly
and floats away
untethered, free.
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
Father's Day, 2018
The sky is the shade of his eyes and his favorite sweater – a color that somehow made his cheeks glow with roses.
Ten years ago, he missed Father’s Day by three weeks. He died alone in his room, not discovered until morning.
It was the middle of Memorial Day weekend. Though he had celebrated his 95th birthday in March, his passing took both my sister and me by surprise. His mind had stayed sharp even as his body diminished.
That year, I kept a promise to be with him for Father’s Day and fulfilled one of his last wishes.
My sister and I had already arranged for cremation and placement of his ashes in the garden at Rose Hills when I found a letter he’d written months before. He wanted his ashes scattered in the ocean to join his parents and my mother. It made sense. My mother’s ashes had been dropped in the Pacific twenty-four years earlier. And, on his calendar, on date of their marriage, he had noted the years they would have celebrated. This, in spite of a second, less than happy marriage lasting more than twenty years!
But my sister wanted his ashes where she could visit. And I wanted to honor his request. We compromised. Before taking the box of ashes to Rose Hills, I scooped some out and carried them with me to Catalina Island the day before Father’s Day.
My friend Dave knew just the place. He took me to a pebbly beach on the east side of the Island.
I stepped ankle deep into the calm water, wished my father safe passage to his next adventure, then emptied the container into the sea.
I watched his ashes curve away, like a swimmer doing breaststroke, off in search of my mother.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
Ten years ago, he missed Father’s Day by three weeks. He died alone in his room, not discovered until morning.
It was the middle of Memorial Day weekend. Though he had celebrated his 95th birthday in March, his passing took both my sister and me by surprise. His mind had stayed sharp even as his body diminished.
That year, I kept a promise to be with him for Father’s Day and fulfilled one of his last wishes.
My sister and I had already arranged for cremation and placement of his ashes in the garden at Rose Hills when I found a letter he’d written months before. He wanted his ashes scattered in the ocean to join his parents and my mother. It made sense. My mother’s ashes had been dropped in the Pacific twenty-four years earlier. And, on his calendar, on date of their marriage, he had noted the years they would have celebrated. This, in spite of a second, less than happy marriage lasting more than twenty years!
But my sister wanted his ashes where she could visit. And I wanted to honor his request. We compromised. Before taking the box of ashes to Rose Hills, I scooped some out and carried them with me to Catalina Island the day before Father’s Day.
My friend Dave knew just the place. He took me to a pebbly beach on the east side of the Island.
I stepped ankle deep into the calm water, wished my father safe passage to his next adventure, then emptied the container into the sea.
I watched his ashes curve away, like a swimmer doing breaststroke, off in search of my mother.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)