It was impossible that this bag of ash was my dad—or part of him, anyway. It made no sense.
But this mountain pass? This spring day? This timeless sky? If I closed my eyes, I could almost feel him here.
I’d never been to this pass without my dad. I’d never been to the cabin without him, either, or these mountains. The Rockies felt like they were just holding my childhood in their hands. Memories of my dad floated back to me: Fly-fishing with his bucket hat on. Hiking in those nubby green socks he loved. Having the brilliant idea to put pancakes in the waffle maker to makepan-ffles.
He was a great dad. He was good at love.
I used to wonder if maybe he’d loved us too well. If we’d been spoiled by all his warmth and goofiness.
But I’m not sure you can be spoiled by love.
I once read that grief is biological. That each person you love has a set of neurons in your brain tasked with keeping track of that person. When that person dies, and that person isgone, those neurons don’t know what to do. They keepsearching and searching for their person—even after there’s no one to find.
Eventually, the neurons themselves die out. That’s what grieving is: letting go of the people we lost, and the parts of ourselves that try to hold on. And our only consolation is love: Diving back in. Finding more people. Growing new neurons. Fearlessly, stubbornly, insistently choosing love over and over—damn the consequences.
There on the rock, as I ignored the love of my life on another rock a hundred feet away, I felt so grateful to my dad. He hadn’t spoiled us, I suddenly knew for certain.
He’d just loved us so well it made losing him worth it.
That night, at bedtime, I went to find Walker down in the bunk room.
He was reclining on his bottom bunk, reading a book about bear attacks.
I perched on the side of the bed, facing him. “Are you reading right now?”
“No,” Walker said, keeping his eyes on the book. “I’mpretendingto read.”
“Why?”
“Because we had a big day, and I’m giving you some space.”
I considered that. “What if I don’t want space?”
“I think you probably do.”
“Can I ask you a question?” I asked next.
“Sure.”
“Are you seeing anyone? In DC?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I guess I just haven’t met anybody I’m interested in lately.”
I nodded.
“Are you seeing anybody?” he asked me back.
“No,” I said.
“Why not?”
I scooted a little closer. “Same reason. Kind of.”
Walker nodded. But now he kept his eyes on me.
