The Itinerary

You drive the station wagon with mom by your side. 

She has your itinerary, a map, and brochures 

for every roadside attraction from Washington to Minnesota. 

Three kids and a dog squabble over space in the backseat.

Farther back, is an ice chest with today’s lunch,

Hostess fruit pies, baloney, bread, root beer, and potato chips, 

buried under an old tent, sleeping bags, and everything else 

we need for two weeks on the road.

We packed up camp two hours and twenty-five minutes ago, 

not quite on schedule, but we’ll make it up somehow. 

I peek over your shoulder and check the speedometer, 

calculating when we’ll reach our destination.

In the back seat, I hold a copy of your itinerary.

It’s a detailed account of what to expect on our journey.

When you typed it up, did you know this was what I needed 

to feel safe on the road, away from home?

It’s years later, and you’re no longer on life’s journey with us, 

because you’ve already reached your destination.

But you left us with an itinerary 

and everything else we needed.

A poem I wrote for my dad.

These past days have been filled with life in stark facets of light and dark. My son’s 18th Birthday, my daughter’s college graduation, and my dad’s funeral—all in the span of four days. Sadness and celebration. The kindness of friends and family has made me feel extra loved, while at the same time, I’m experiencing a strange sense of feeling unmoored. I imagine this is a shared feeling, common to those who’ve lost loved ones. All this, against the backdrop of the Christmas season. I keep thinking of a quote from the book, Beyond Words, by Frederick Buechner,

Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid.