My father was a habitual wanderer.
Wanderlust lured him through bomb-pocked Europe, whispered him back to the Appalachians. Eventually, he discovered the frigid Pacific.
Surprising my mom, he chose to moor at a picket fence, sing lullabies.
Yet he drifted from a fishing trawler, to a screeching sawmill and to...and to….until we all grew enough to wander ourselves.
Well into retirement, he’d clump his walker through honking traffic, tell officers an Air Canada silhouette was a German bomber.
He faded into another world, leaving a Cheshire grin cupped on the nightstand and his road dust in an urn.
Wanderlust lured him through bomb-pocked Europe, whispered him back to the Appalachians. Eventually, he discovered the frigid Pacific.
Surprising my mom, he chose to moor at a picket fence, sing lullabies.
Yet he drifted from a fishing trawler, to a screeching sawmill and to...and to….until we all grew enough to wander ourselves.
Well into retirement, he’d clump his walker through honking traffic, tell officers an Air Canada silhouette was a German bomber.
He faded into another world, leaving a Cheshire grin cupped on the nightstand and his road dust in an urn.
