This evening I drove back from my childhood home with my wife and our 17 month old daughter. The drive to our house takes about an hour and I’ve done it countless times; it's dark and windy, long stretches look exactly the same, and as the sun sets the road becomes a familiar mix of beautiful and dangerous.
We had left a small family gathering not unlike dozens of others we’ve had in the past. Aunts and uncles, cousins, and siblings from far away all gathered together around the same table where I used to eat every summer meal. As a child, the shade of two ash trees draped across the porch but today there's just a couple of bamboo curtains and the cadence of familiar stories to temper the afternoon sun.
My Dad loved these kinds of gatherings: friends and family, elbow to elbow, eating, drinking, talking and laughing, flittering between languages like my toddler between laps. And this weekend we had all come together to celebrate him. My Dad died a week ago, and with his portrait perched overhead, we all laughed, cried, ate and drank his memory.
In the months before his death, he shared two hopes with me that I will hold on to forever. Both came long before he was actually sick, but were stark in light of the way he would often joke about death.
First, he wanted to make sure that our families stayed close. My dad’s family is from Europe and we live in the States. I have a brother and a sister in Belgium and, as a child, I spent some longer periods of time with my Aunt and Uncle and cousins in Spain. There’s a special fondness there that despite the time and distance is strong. But as everyone has gotten older, it's naturally become harder to make the trip. The physical distance between our families is great and now, in his absence, it feels even greater.
The second was about my daughter. I don't recall the actual words he used, but it saddened him, as it saddens me, to think that he might not be around as she grew up. I grew up without really knowing my Mom's parents, and as is always the case, it only occurs to me now, as a parent, how painful that must have been for her.
The group today was the last gathering before we all headed back to our corners of the globe. We had a wonderful time together. But no matter how long or sweet the visit the end is always sad, and as we said our goodbyes the tears in my Uncle's eyes betrayed the finality of the occasion. My wife assures me that I’m being irrational, we will see each other again, we must see each other again. But the sad truth of irrationality is that no amount of explanation can convince you of the opposite.
As we drove back I couldn’t help but think of Tim Urban’s essay The Tail End and wonder if we were crossing off the last spot on our family's chart. I'd be lying if I said the thought and blurry eyes didn't make driving back in the setting sun more difficult, but sitting here now, I realize that my wife was right. It's only over if we let it be over. And for a man who never gave up, and a granddaughter he wanted to know, we won't let it be over.