A spontaneous family gathering occurred over Father’s Day weekend this year. It was a rare event, even more so because of the upheaval in my family of late. There were nine of us in all. It was a happy time. The weather was nice and we had promised the children that when they came to visit, we would hike to a special place where they used to go with their dad, and they could spread his ashes there.
It’s been a very long time since I’ve hiked that trail. It’s a very nice hike, but I am not the sprite of my youth. Umm. Right. I never was a sprite, to be completely honest. I am a trooper, though. I carried my 33 lb beloved a good part of the way. Others tried to help, but he would have none of it. I must be with my mama, he wailed, holding his arms out as though he couldn’t survive another moment in someone else’s arms.
We hiked. It seemed as though we wouldn’t make it. The trail was much longer than I remembered. How much longer We’re almost there, I kept assuring my nieces. They stopped believing me after about the fifteenth time. We did make it, and it was beautiful. Of course we ran out of water, and of course I didn’t bring my camera, and of course I left the spare diapers in the car. After all, we were only going to be out for an hour or two, at most. Ha! We were gone over four hours. My munchkin was very good, considering what his mother put him through.
The view at the top was glorious. We could see for miles and miles. Paragliders were launching themselves skyward, and it was thrilling to watch them become one with the sky. We found a grassy and private place, and my sweet nephew and niece knelt on the ground and said a prayer for their daddy as they let the wind carry his ashes away. 
The hike down proved more painful than the hike up, as my toes banged into the tip of my shoes with each and every step. They were sore for days, and I suspected there was some bruising beneath my berry polish. Being one for fastidious grooming, and all, I removed the polish the other day. Sure enough. Bruised.
I wish I could find words to express the feelings and thoughts that this day fostered. There is a deep wistfulness for the children and for what could have been, but will never be. There is a yearning for them to grow up without for a moment wondering if they were in any way responsible, or to blame. There is a sorrow that is shared with all my siblings. An indescribable sense of loss. I know that I ought not romanticize death by imagining the ‘could have beens’ rather than acknowledging the way things were, but I tend to be the kind of person who hopes and believes that the best can happen, that it is possible. Hoping against hope for things to turn around. To get better.
I miss him. I miss the could have beens. I wish things could have been better. And all I can do is ramble on about bruised toes.
