Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
“Uh, where are you going?” I ask, standing in the doorway to their bedroom—her bedroom. Dad hated the white quilt with cherry blossoms. The gray fabric headboard. The bougie chandelier that replaced his practical ceiling fan. And the pink velvet bench at the end of the bed that he said made him feel emasculated every morning when he sat on it to put on his socks.
“After the funeral, Regina invited me to visit her in Vermont. So I bought a train ticket,” Mom says.
“Now? You’re leaving now?”
“Yes, William,” she says, folding a sweater like she’s mad at it.
I scrub my hands over my face. “Don’t you think you need to take a minute before packing your things and leaving?”
“A minute to what?” She faces me, holding out her hands. “Cry? Miss him? Stare at everything in this house and think about him?”
“Well, yes. Isn’t that why they say grieving is a process?”
“Who are they, and why should I care what they say? There is no right or wrong way to grieve. Leah will find her way. I’ll find mine. And you’ll find yours. No judgment. It’s not a race. It can take a day or a lifetime. It can be a moment or a process. But Regina lost her mom last year, and she’s my oldest friend, so I feel like spending time with her will help me move on. Staying here will feel like a roadblock because he’s . . .” She looks around, tears filling her eyes. “Everywhere,” she whispers. “And yet, somehow gone.”
I drop my head and rub the tension from my neck.
“But if you need me, I won’t go. Not now. You’re my boy, and I choose you and your sister over everything else. Always.”
“I know,” I murmur.
“I thought you’d go to Baltimore.”
If only it were that easy. I shake my head. “She deserves more than my grief.”
“Then give her what she needs. And in the process, you might discover it’s what you need too.”
I find a half grin. “That seems to be the popular answer.”
“What do you mean?” She turns and continues to pack.
“Nothing. If you want to go, then I think you should go. I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re not going to Baltimore, are you staying here or moving back to Missoula?”
“I don’t know.”
She glances over her shoulder and smiles. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
The day after my mom gets on a train, I go through my dad’s camping gear and pack everything I need for a long road trip. Then I hit the road.
Sometimes, I glance over at the passenger seat and see him grinning while looking at the passing landscape of frosted valleys and snow-covered mountains. It’s like he’s seeing it for the first time. He never took for granted the power of outdoor therapy. When I was younger, I used to watch him stare at the sunset for what felt like an eternity.
“Aren’t you tired of staring at the same thing?” I asked, drawing tic-tac-toe grids in the dirt with a stick.
“Nope,” he said. “I’m not just staring at it. I’m experiencing it.”
“Experiencing what?”
He laughed. “Someday you’ll understand.”
“I doubt it,” I mumbled, sighing while wishing the sun would hurry and set so we could lie next to each other and stare at the stars. I swore my dad knew every constellation.
As I gaze at the sunset from Dante’s View, Death Valley, I smile. It’s an experience indeed. Everything changes in what feels like a blink as the sun slips behind the mountains, igniting the salt flats in its warm glow. It’s a reminder that time never slows, and every sunset is a gift. Every moment is a gift.
When the shadows fade, and the mountains vanish in the darkness, I settle on a blanket, bundled in my jacket and hat, using my backpack as a pillow. I feel him next to me on the blanket, pointing out constellations in the star-covered sky while rapid-firing questions. Every astronomy lesson he ever taught me replays in my mind.
I don’t want to grieve him. That means he’s gone. And I’m not ready for him to be gone. Maybe I’ll keep him right here with me forever.
Over the next two months, I visit all the parks I never visited with my dad since we rarely hiked in the winter.
Saguaro.
Joshua Tree.
Big Bend.
I occasionally check my phone when I have a good cell signal, looking for messages from my mom or sister. Mom shares a few photos of Vermont as if to let me know she’s okay. Maren and Jamie send occasional texts, just to tell me they’re thinking of me. And a part of me holds a spark of hope that I’ll see something from Everleigh, but I never do.
The more lost I get, the more found I feel. The silence is nice. I practice tai chi every morning and meditate under the stars every night. Sometimes I play tic-tac-toe in the dirt (I always win), and other times I find a magnificent view and perch on a rock with a good book. It makes me think of Everleigh. I have a lot of reading to do to catch up with her. I might need a few more lifetimes.