I thought about skipping this one and instead sitting back in my chair with a book down at the ocean’s edge. It was the last day of vacation though and I would not squander a walk along the waves next to the white sand dunes under the Carolina blue sky.
SPF 70, straw hat, and big Jackie O sunglasses – and off I went.
I chose a lazy pace. No music or audible book. Just me, mindful of all around me, with my feet in the edge of the cooling water as the sun’s heat gained intensity.
About halfway down, I saw a fairly large white shell. Thin, delicate, with frayed edges. This one spoke to me. There was a luminosity to it. A delicate strength. Imperfect but strong. I picked it up in remembrance of Dad. He always came back from the beach with shells in his pockets. Each one a magical treasure.
Farther down the beach, I walked in a shallow pool of water slowly being filled as the tide rose. As I waded out of it, I saw a clump on the beach. What at first looked like a piece of driftwood, I realized was a piece of coral reef. I picked it up as well, smiling at all the times Dad found and tossed icky seaweed at us over the years with the giggliness of a 10-year-old-boy as mom and I would squeal and splash away.
Soon after, I climbed up the hot sand dune to the welcoming spot of all who wonder in faith. A 50-year-old weathered wood post hoisting the Kindred Spirit mailbox as a beacon. Framed by a wooden bench on each side, pews for those called.
As was often the case, there were other travelers there. They’d come to write thanks, hopes, heartbreak, memories, and dreams in the notebooks the Kindred Spirit mailbox always contained.
I put my collected offerings on the bench next to the man. His wife standing beside the mailbox writing a note. I got another notebook from inside the Kindred Spirit mailbox and sat down.
“Honey, what day is it,” she asked the man next to me.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
I chimed in, “that means you’re on vacation” – and we all laughed in appreciation.
With a thick Boston accent he responded, “yeah, but they always go so fast. I’m just now ready for summer and fall is almost here.” He paused and added, “I think it’s the eighth.”
I looked at my watch and shared, “well, actually, it’s the 16th – so you must have had a great vacation.” We all laughed again, and I thought of the thousands of little interactions Dad had with strangers along his way; always sharing his warm hearty laugh.
“Would you like a picture?” I asked them.
She asked, “Do you want one George?”
My breath caught. Chest tightened. Tears welled up.
“No, we’ll just keep the memories,” he replied as he stood, and they began to walk down the sand dune. His wife adding to me, “have a great vacation.”
George.
We’ll just keep the memories.
George?
We’ll just keep the memories.
George!
We’ll just keep the memories.
There I was at Kindred Spirit. A heartfelt laugh. An offering of treasures. Sitting next to George, my Dad’s name.
Alone but with him.
I’ll just keep the memories.
