At breakfast, the server came up to us and I asked him if he was celebrating the day.
His eyes glistened as he said, “No, I lost my dad the first week of January this year… it’s a tough day for me.”
I looked at his name tag - it said ‘Patrick’.
He said he was named after his father, Patrick (!)
I explained why our whole family was there in Chicago for breakfast that day at the hotel - To spread the ashes of my amazing dad, PATRICK, who moved on to his next adventure in January only a few days after our server’s father passed away.
We shared a moment.
As if our dads were there to bring us together and give us a comforting hug ✨
That afternoon, standing in front of the house where my dad spent summers growing up, I watched his ashes disappear into the soil and wind.
A small town outside of Chicago in Marengo, IL.
A much slower pace of living.
Where in the center of the main street in town you look to the left, look to the right… And that was everything to see.
Dad often spoke of those idyllic summers spent alone with his grandparents from 10-12 years old.
Back at home with his younger siblings, he was expected to take on a lead role of helping take care of everyone while his dad was away in the Navy.
In Marengo, the kid could be a kid.
Riding his bicycle into town to treat himself to a soda pop on a hot summer day in the late 1950’s. 🥤
Visiting the dime shop to buy plastic mini green army men to play with.
Balancing on logs and catching fireflies.
A dying man’s wish to eternally rest in a place that brought fond memories as a boy.
At the end of this human experience, for those of us left behind… all we have are memories.
A highlight reel of the highs and lows.
Let’s all make some good ones with those we love. ❤️
That’s what I’m doing right now. ✨