My favorite place in the world to watch the sun set is on the edge of my grandparents’ dock in Traverse City, Michigan. Sure, there are plenty of places more beautiful. But none hold more memories.
As I dip my feet in the chilly waters of Lake Leelanau, I’m reminded of all the summers I spent here, frolicking with cousins and pulling up stones submerged underwater in search of crayfish. I remember my once muscular grandfather, now too frail to stand on his own, wading into the water with his shirt unbuttoned, pulling a 10-foot aluminum boat to the shore with one hand. Continue reading
Father’s Day is one of the few days out of the year that I’m actually glad I live thousands of miles from home.
If I were back in Kentucky, I might drive to Kroger and buy a mismatched bouquet of flowers and take them to a graveyard not too far from where I attended high school. I’d pause before getting out of my car, maybe fiddle with the radio for a minute or two and take a deep breath. I’d probably be alone.
I’d find my father’s grave and stare at it for a while. His first name, David, is my middle name. I’d look at the year of death – 1989 – and think about my life before then. The memories I have are coated in the kind of yellow tint you might find in an Instagram photo. Continue reading