December 26, 2024 / December 26, 1994
While this might not seem like a travel story, it is. Bear with me…
Thirty years ago today my dad died. Thankfully, it was fast. He didn’t linger which I’m grateful for. He had cancer but was in no pain. He was just slowly slipping away. A few weeks before Christams I’d given him permission to die.
“Do you want me gone,” he asked.
“Oh, Dad. No. It’s just so hard watching you. It’s ok. We’ll be fine. It’s ok to go.” I was taken back by the question.
What I didn’t bargain for was him shutting down on Christmas Eve morning, nor Christmas Eve evening with hospice, or the Christmas Day vigil and visit from the priest.
I have always been grateful that he waited until the 26th. It was late enough in the morning that Christmas had passed the International Date Line and Christmas around the world was over.
But there is never a Christmas when I don’t think of that other one. There is never a Christmas when something will get triggered and bring back to 1994. It’s all part of the course for loving someone.
But Christmas was forever changed. Grief travels with us long after someone dies. It took years to travel the distance from avoiding Christmas to embrace it again. I’ve traveled 30 years without my father and I can’t even begin to count the times I’ve thought of him, wished him here. Another breakfast together, more questions.
He was an easy man. He loved children and pets. He loved Michigans and I always think of him when I’m sitting at the counter at Clare and Carl’s. He loved the City Beach and the next book—about that very topic—is dedicated to him.
I still miss my dad, and that is a good thing. It says the bond was strong and that he’s worthy of being missed.
Not all travel stories are about land, sea or air. Some are metaphorical, and this is one of them.
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