As I handed Pop his coffee in his IBM mug, I snuck another look at him. No change. His expression was an inscrutable mixture of sorrow, resignation, and something else; longing, uncertainty, a little boy lost in a store. So uncharacteristic of his usual cheerful persona.

It was the summer after my mom’s passing and we were visiting him with the kids. Despite the presence of both me and my brother, our wives, and our six kids, you could see he was phoning it in. Smiles were rare and faded quickly. Thousand-yard stares out on his back patio were more common. 

Some of Mom’s stuff was still around. I picked up a little envelope holder we’d made for her, one of our first father-and-son projects.

“Remember this, Pop?” I asked. It had Christmas 1971 inscribed in a childish scrawl. “She really liked it.”

He gave me a wintry smile. “Yeah,” he said. “She did.” He looked down at his coffee.

There are some things that can’t be fixed. Only endured.

Later that summer came a happier period. 

We’d established a tradition with Sue’s sister and her family of renting a beach house in Rehoboth Beach, DE, for two weeks. It was roughly the same drive for each family and it was an idyllic spot. 

The house was made of cypress and cedar and had two floors. It was a perfect beach house; rooms opening off of rooms, bathrooms tucked here and there, an outdoor shower covered with wild honeysuckle.

Between the screened-in back porch and the dunes, flowering plants and sea grasses grew up to a rickety dune fence. And above it all was a little hill with a tiny bench. That became my spot.

While everyone else was on the beach, I sat on the bench lost in thought. Mom’s passing. How to spark life back into Pop. Thoughts about my own mortality and how fast life was going by. No real answers, but watching the kites and smelling the salt air was revitalizing somehow.

Three years later, Pop followed Mom.

His was not an easy passing. Unlike Mom who went to bed one night and simply never woke, Pop struggled to swallow, had a feeding tube, and a cup of shaved ice to chew. Nurses came and went, checking things, squeezing his ankle and giving him a kind word.

Speech for him was difficult. It was mostly Doug and I sitting by his bed, rehashing old stories, as days turned to weeks. He usually fell asleep for his afternoon nap with the wintry smile.

One afternoon, we tiptoed out. We didn’t realize it had been the last time we’d ever speak with him.

That summer, even the chill vibe of the beach house couldn’t lift my spirits. I sat on my bench as the wind moved the grasses back and forth.

Losing one parent was jarring, a huge part of my life suddenly gone. But two was beyond jarring; it filled me with despair. 

Even though I was in my early fifties, I felt orphaned somehow…rootless, on my own, no more safety net. I suppose this happens to everyone blessed with decent parents, but the four of us had been close, tight…meals filled with laughter and gentle teasing. The knowledge that we were all there for each other. 

And now it was all finally, irretrievably gone.

One afternoon, my brother in law and some of the kids came in carrying a bag. The kids were excited and I looked in the bag; cellophane packages with pictures of lanterns and Asian writing. I was puzzled. George looked at me.

“You’ve never seen these?” I shook my head. “Oh dude,” he said. “You’re in for a treat. Wait till tonight.”

A late afternoon thunderstorm and downpour almost derailed our plans, but thankfully it all blew out to sea. A glorious rainbow graced the golden hour as twilight arrived.

George and the rest appeared with the bag of lanterns and I followed them up to the bench. The first few campfires appeared on the beach as the eastern sky darkened and the storm rumbled and flashed far out at sea.

The lanterns were basketball-size hot-air balloons made out of tissue paper, with a little candle underneath. When the candle filled it with hot air, the balloon was released.

I’d sent plenty of model rockets and fireworks aloft, but they were fast, loud and unpredictable. More than once, my guardian angel had protected me from grievous bodily harm in the era of fireworks that could remove a hand. 

Conversely, the spectacle of glowing balloons rising gently and silently, transfixed me. It was incredibly zen. They cleared the dunes and continued rising, propelled by a slight offshore breeze.

The candles lasted a long time and we finally lost sight of each balloon at some unfathomable height and distance.

One by one, the family went inside and finally it was just me and George. He looked in the bag.

“Well,” he said. “We got one left. Should we?”

“Absolutely.”

I held the balloon while he lit the candle. When it was full and ready, he looked at me. He knew about Pop and sensed I’d maybe like a moment alone. He was a good guy that way.

“I’ll see you in the house, brother,” he said. I sat alone on the bench.

Suddenly it was more than just a little hot air balloon. Everything related. The distant storm, the gathering night. Mom and Pop, lifelong followers of Jesus, now in some distant realm. Doug and I, carrying on as best we could, trying to recreate our childhoods for a new generation, trying to make Mom and Pop proud.

Things blurred as I released the last balloon.

“Bye, Pop,” I said gently. “Say hi to Mom for me.”

It was now almost night and my tiny balloon competed with the first evening stars. I watched it climb higher and grow dimmer until it eventually became indistinguishable from the rising summer constellations. I finally sensed the peace that had eluded me for three years.

To one, a farewell.

To another, an arrival.

I could use more of that feeling each day.

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