4:45 pm – I am sitting outside on our back porch, listening to the birds. A blue jay. The house sparrows. Off in the distance, a cardinal. I also hear the rustling of the tree as the squirrels play. Probably the rats, too, though I choose to believe that they aren’t hanging around too close.
Today was my last day at a summer writing institute. We shared our pedagogical inquiries with peers. I received generally positive feedback, though the more I read my piece, the more I dislike it. I’ll submit it for publishing in our anthology.
So many ideas swirling around in my head. Tomorrow, I should go to the library to organize them.
Wind chimes blowing in a small breeze.
At the end of the day today, we sat in a circle and shared our writing. I thought I would share my pedagogical inquiry piece, and perhaps, I should have. Even if I’m unhappy with it, there’s some good stuff there.
Instead, I read the piece I wrote from this morning, about bringing my dad’s ashes through the airport. It felt really nice to share the small piece with the group. I couldn’t help but think about our original group name–Daddy’s Girls–and how my initial reaction was so visceral to Liz.
“I have a dead dad,” I said. “So maybe not that one.”
The group understood, and we quickly moved on, deciding on Homeward Bound instead. A connection to home that we all found in our pieces of writing that morning. I didn’t talk about my dad much, not really in my writing or in my group. It wasn’t really that kind of writing we were doing, anyway. There was a moment, Googling how to spell my late English teacher’s name, to include her name in a piece I was working on. Mrs. Calato died last year, and I found a Substack tribute to her. The author mentioned her motorcycle, and I thought about my dad’s motorcycle. My eyes watered, and I thought, then, I’d maybe talk about him with my group who sat around me working on their own pieces. I didn’t, and so that was that.
I talked about my reaction to Daddy’s Girls with Kacie, and how I want to be someone that can talk about my dad even with strangers–especially with strangers because of how much he would love that.
On Monday, during a lunchtime conversation with Sam and Jess, I mentioned my wedding and how my dad had died just a few months before my wedding.
“Do you want to talk about that?” Jess asked. “Was it sudden?”
And so, to girls who were strangers the week prior, I told the story of how my dad died. I kept it tight, not wanting to linger on any detail for too long. To protect myself maybe. To keep going probably.
Then, the remaining days of our writing institute passed so quickly, and it felt almost like I was losing a friend. I’m just getting started here. It can’t be ending.
I tackled more of my speculative fiction story, about two teenage girls from two different types of schools set far into our future. I wanted there to be hope. I really tried to find it. I should try to keep writing and finish their story. I ignored my lesson plan, hoping that a cool idea would become an engaging teaching demonstration. Note to self: ideas alone aren’t enough. I vibe coded the daily log to recap the previous day. I was having so much fun.
We all felt the shift on Wednesday, the penultimate day. We, and I do hope it’s okay to speak on behalf of the group, all felt the magic of the community that we’d built. We already felt sad for that eventual goodbye.
On Thursday, we began the day by watching as Ross Gay read the story “Tomato on Board” and use the phrase, “my favorite gesture in the encyclopedia of human gestures.” I wanted so badly to think of anything with that phrase. Instead, I captured the day–the moments I remember clearly–that I flew from home to home with my dad’s ashes.
Andrea didn’t ask us to share when the timer was up. The day moved from teaching demo groups to a catered lunch. We laughed a lot, and I really tried to savor it all. How lucky am I to get to be in a group like this? In a profession that lends itself to this sort of work?
After lunch, as the day came to a close, we assembled ourselves into a circle to read aloud a piece of our writing to the whole group. I brought my laptop and had my pedagogical inquiry piece pulled up. For some reason, as soon as we got started, I panicked and grabbed my notebook. I thought maybe I should read something else. So, I flipped through some pages and landed on that morning’s writing.
I’ll read about my dad to the group. I wasn’t worried about crying; I wasn’t worried about the content. I was worried it was a bit too short and wondered if it could properly capture who I am as a writer. I read it anyway.
In “Tomato on Board,” Ross Gay describes the time that he brought a tomato plant on a plane. While listening to the story, I was reminded of the time that I brought my dad, in a TSA-approved container from the funeral home, to travel with me from New Orleans to Detroit.
I tried to keep the mood of it all pretty light–something I should probably work on. In the security line, I smiled at the TSA agent and said, “My dad’s in this bag.” The agent did not return the same light-hearted playfulness, and instead, took the container and scanned it through. I placed the container back into the white bag from the funeral home. There was a small urn in the bag, empty. I would later have to transfer the ashes from the TSA-approved container and into the urn.
After going through security, I met up with my cousin, Tyler, who had traveled from San Francisco for the services, and we had a quick drink in the airport lounge. I snapped a picture of the white bag sitting on the table and remembered laughing, “My dad would have hated this lounge. Too fancy for him.”
Throughout the flight, I fidgeted with the bag, making sure it was upright, checking that the ashes were still in the container. The song “The Weight” by The Band was stuck in my head.
And take a load off, Fanny
Take a load for free
Take a load off, Fanny
And you put the load right on me.
I imagined the ashes–no more than a few ounces–and how in some way, my dad was getting to take a load off. For free!
I’m not sure how to end that piece. I have the idea that maybe it’s the beginning of something else. Maybe of my next story. Of processing grief.
I won’t say that an eight-day writing institute is what got me to process my grief; that’s the job only a lifetime can really do. But I am here, writing about my dad as the birds sing and the squirrels play, and I think maybe this life will be okay. I can sit and write and just be okay.