Today is my Dad’s birthday.
The Thanksgiving before he passed away, he told me he wanted to be cremated. He had told me that about a million times, so I looked at him, grinned, and asked, “Well? Where do you want to go?”
He grinned back and said, “Pike’s Peak.”
This morning, we drove to the top of the world. Or at least to a spot about 14,115 feet high.
When we reached the summit and walked around, this is the spot where it just felt right.
It’s a pretty amazing thing for our boys to say that they got to throw their Pa off a mountain. ;)
He would have laughed at that. A lot.
There was a second spot, a beautiful and quieter place, where we said our final goodbyes. We found the perfect rock and made sure it had a perfect view.
The boys carry their grandfather’s weird sense of humor. I heard Holden whisper, “I sure hope Pa has a jacket up here.” It was a balmy 41 degrees and a tad bit windy.
I had to sit with all of this for just a minute longer, and felt a huge sense of “this IS perfect,” like a big exhale after holding all of your breath in for too long.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
P.S. I saved some of you to spread here at home, too. I couldn’t quite let go completely. Working on it.