My throat tightens. Matteo suddenly finds a sign fascinating and falls back further.
We reach the overlook, and there they are. Two American black bears, with thick winter coats, glossy even in the gray light. One shifts, snorts, then settles back down like the cold is just another fact of life.
Dad exhales slowly. “There they are.”
I remember being little, my gloves too big, my nose running, telling him they looked lonely. Remember him crouching beside me, explaining that some animals liked space, that quiet didn’t mean abandoned or lonely.
I didn’t know then how much he needed that explanation himself.
“They’re not afraid,” he says now.
“No,” I say. “They’re comfortable.”
He nods like that answers something he’s been carrying.
We don’t rush it.
December has thinned the crowds and softened the noise, like the zoo knows how to lower its voice during seasons where people need it to.
We pass the Congo Gorilla Forest. The glass fogs where kids press their mittens, but inside it’s warm and green.
Dad stops and watches the biggest silverback. “He looks like he knows something.”
“He does,” I reply. “He just doesn’t feel the need to explain it.”
Matteo smiles at that. James shifts his weight, content to let the moment hold.
At Tiger Mountain,a tiger paces the ridge, deliberate and unhurried. Every step looks chosen.
Dad reaches for the rail, steady. “That one doesn’t waste energy.”
“No,” I say. “He knows where he’s going.”
We linger longer than we need to. No one tells us to move along; maybe that’s why he loved it here as much as I did. It’s an escape from the rat race.
Up throughthe Himalayan Highlands, the air bites sharper. Snow clings to the rocks. Red pandas curled up, keeping warm.
“Before you ask, no, we cannot buy them coats,” he chuckles.
I lean my head on his shoulder, and we stand for just a minute longer before moving on.
We end near the Sea Lion Pool, where the water slaps and echoes. A sea lion barks, ridiculous and joyful, and Dad laughs, surprised by himself.
“Show-offs,” he says fondly.
“Yeah,” I agree.
We stand there, breath visible, city far enough away to forget. James checks the path ahead. Matteo stays close. Dad slips his hand into mine.
For a while, there’s nothing to manage, no rooms to read, no people to brace for. Just animals minding their business.
On the way out, Dad makes a beeline for the gift shop, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes bright.
“Oh no,” I laugh. “We’re not doing this.”
“Oh yes,” he says, decisive. “It’s Christmas.”
We leave with bags. So many bags. Bears, obviously. But also, elephants, lions, and giraffes wearing ridiculous winter scarves. Dad kept adding one more, as if generosity were seasonal and he were late to catch up, choosing to be part of it rather than writing a check.
