Last night, we masked up and my parents came over for dinner. I made a pumpkin based beer and cheese soup, which tasted delicious but looked appalling because the cheese had separated. Mom and Dad brought some jalapeno cheese bread and my sister cut up some appetizers. During dinner, I sat in the kitchen while everyone else sat at the table. After dinner, the ladies brought out a puzzle. My nephew went out with friends and the guys lounged on the living room chairs watching historical documentaries and movies.
It was a pleasant evening, but I couldn't help feeling I was the odd man out. Part of it was because I was still technically in quarantine and had to stay away from everyone, but I think a far bigger realization was that I felt like I was intruding on my own family.
Dad had lost a lot of weight. I was prepared, of course. I had been told, but I wasn't prepared to see him look so...small. As far back as I can remember, my dad was always a big, stomping giant who left a trail of noise in his wake. Seeing him slowly (and quietly) bumble about is a little disconcerting.
As the puzzle pieces snapped into place, Mom chatted with Blythe about Josh's new job and a host of other work related things. I asked questions here and there, but as the puzzle started taking shape, I felt more and more like I didn't belong. I felt like my time in Alaska was finally over, that there was no good reason to ever come back because I had finally moved on.
This isn't to say I've moved on from my family or that I never want to see them again. Not at all. It simply means that I've been holding onto this ideal, this fondness for a place that holds no true meaning for me anymore. I hate the idea, I do, because I had always thought I'd be coming back someday. I don't think it's possible anymore. No one is more surprised than me.
On the bright side, this opens up a range of new possibilities. I could live anywhere and that's an exciting prospect. I could see myself in Amsterdam, though I'd probably have to stay in the states if I was going to continue my series. Close enough to a big city, but far enough and quiet enough to research and write in peace. Maybe I'd say to hell with all of that and channel my inner romantic, build a tiny house on wheels, and drive around the country. That sounds like fun, too.
We lie to ourselves when we say we have more time. I see the fallacy of it with my dad's illness. Perhaps that's the reason behind Quilting Weekends and the travelling around the world. Chances are, my dad never got to do 75% of the things he really wanted to do and now there's that possibility that he never will. I want my life to have meaning and purpose. Why would I want my life to end with regrets?
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