I like the way we released my dad last weekend. (To Everything There Is A Season)
We created an unusual memorial; Dad would have liked that. A small family procession toured his old childhood neighborhood, the places where he laughed and played and probably caused his share of mischief. We visited the old family home, the school he attended as a child, and the park where he skated on cold Midwestern evenings. We stopped at the nearly abandoned railroad yard where Dad and Grandpa both began their lifelong love affair with trains.
Each stop prompted stories, laughs, and tears as we recalled the seasons of a remarkable life formed in unremarkable places. Dad would have enjoyed the stories and laughs, and hated the tears, but he would have appreciated this unconventional celebration. We scattered some of his ashes at each site, probably violating all sorts of laws in the process. Dad would have liked that bit of rebellion as well.
We visited a favorite niece who died too young, and left a bit of him there as well. We all liked the idea that they could spend some time together.
At the traditional family burial plot, we paused to remember Grandpa, Grandma, and Dad’s youngest brother. More stories, more broken rules as we left part of Dad with his parents, a bit more solemn here as though each of us needed time for personal reflection.
Then we each took a balloon to an open spot, waited briefly, and released them into the windy morning sky. Everyone said goodbye in their own way, and then we watched as the brightly colored dots faded into the grey clouds. I stared intently, trying to keep sight of one small image, but at last they were gone.
It was a wonderful symbol of release and freedom for me. No point in staring at the sky, hoping for a glimpse of something that wasn’t there any longer.
It was time to let go.
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