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 16^th – 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.

I stood there. 

Feet planted.
Shoulders back.
Spine straight.

Still, in the frenzy of those around me.

Breathe. Listen.

There I was in the midst of 37,000+ people in Fenway Park. Surrounded alone.

See. Feel.

I recognized the panic in my head and the twinge in my stomach… but I stood planted accepting of the inevitable.

The first tear ran down my cheek. Then the next one fell.

I let them come. No wiping. No concealing.

Grief found me again, swelling, releasing, and consuming.

I stood planted, and let it move me and move through me.

I then leaned into the moment and the music that stirred my sole, and joined Foo Fighters’ Dave Grohl sing “Under You” – written after the death of their drummer Taylor Hawkins.

“I woke up and walked a million miles today. I’ve been looking up and down for you. All this time, it still feels just like yesterday. That I walked a million miles with you.

Over it. Think I’m getting over it. There’s no getting over it.

There are times that I need someone. There are times I feel like no one. Sometimes I just don’t know what to do. There are days I can’t remember. There are days that last forever. Someday I’ll come out from under you.

Someone said I’ll never see your face again. Part of me just can’t believe it’s true. Pictures of us sharing songs and cigarettes. This is how I’ll always picture you.”

My brain lost in the moment, the music, my memories.

Drowned out by the speakers. My heart singing loudly, a declaration.

“Over it.
Think I’m getting over it.
There’s no getting over it.
There are times that I need someone.
There are times I feel like no one.
Sometimes I just don’t know what to do.
There are days I can’t remember.
There are days that last forever.
Someday I’ll come out from under you.”

Each tear a release.

… Dad loved music… listening, playing, singing—feeling it.

… Dad loved his friends… there I stood next to a bestie who brought me here as a gift of replenishment—feeling it.

… Dad loved to provide comfort to those in need… as I looked out I saw the connection of all these people, each one with a personal loss as they sang—feeling it.

… Dad loved to play… this trip had been filled with fun adventures as we “had the journey that was meant to be”—feeling it.

I stood planted. Tears fell. Words sung. Emotions felt. Gratitude given.

Because as the Foo Fighters later sang that night — and I with them smiling…

“…I’m a wild light, blinding bright, burnin’ off and on.
It’s times like these you learn to live again.
It’s times like these you give and give again.
It’s times like these you learn to love again.
It’s times like these, time and time again.

I, I’m a new day rising.
I’m a brand-new sky to hang the stars upon tonight.
I, I’m a little divided.
Do I stay or run away and leave it all behind?

It’s times like these you learn to live again.
It’s times like these you give and give again.
It’s times like these you learn to love again.
It’s times like these, time and time again.”