In the final days of my dad’s life, he’d travel. Eyes fluttering, head tilting back, he’d set out on a lone journey. In these moments, I’d ease back in an uncomfortable hospital chair and wonder where he might be going.
We did our best to make the hospital room cozy. Despite a tiny tree and presents beneath, it didn’t feel like Christmas.
Hisses and beeps, ticking and dripping, issued from bedside equipment. Skeletal poles and devices loomed.
I didn’t blame him for wanting to mentally escape. Not that he had a choice. One minute, he’d be with us. The next, his head would go back, whites of his eyes exposed, mouth agape, and he’d be on his way elsewhere.
The episodes ended with him awakening, whispering: “You won’t believe where I just went.” His voice too ragged to tell me exactly where, but I had some ideas…
This is the place in the backyard where we’d build a bonfire twice a year. I like to think he traveled there.
This is a tree we loved at a local park. I like to think he traveled here.
This is an old attraction in Florida we’d visit on the way to see his sister in Tampa. I like to think he traveled there.
This is an abandoned orange grove we discovered once hiking in Florida. I like to think he traveled there too.
It’s Florida, after all, where his travels began.
In his early teens, he ran away from his Ocala home, aiming to escape a situation he deemed unsuitable. From a young age, traveling was his salvation.
He’d tell me stories about leaving home as a child to go on adventures. He’d wander orange groves much like the one above. He’d trek dusty trails, scouring sandy earth for arrowheads.
As I watched the life escape from his body second by second in those final days, I knew that “traveling” was a gift: a preternatural, psychic present from the higher power of your choosing.
Beautiful he’d been granted this ultimate ability: to travel again without ever having to leave the people who loved him most.
