Rites of Passage

     There are  moments in life when one stops and realizes that things unfold as they should no matter how much one tries to arrange things as wanted. A wise woman once told me that though they may be made of scraps, there is a pattern in the quilt. And just like the back of  a tapestry that looks like a crisscrossing of threads and colors, when you look at the real picture it actually makes sense and you realize that every thread, every  color is there for a reason. That nothing is an accident, though frayed the tapestry may look at times.

     Fifteen years is a long time to not touch foot in one's country of birth and the place where most of one's growing up is done.  Two boys aged 8 and 10 make their first transpacific flight across the world to touch base with their mother's roots.  Meanwhile, an old man grows weary of the world at 93 and figures the time has come to make that final  journey. And while it is an impossibility to be present at a parent's first breath, being there when he takes his final one is a gift not afforded to all. Seeing family, old friends, classmates-turned- friends and even friends never seen before makes for happy times even in the saddest of circumstance. 
 

     Sew these scraps from the fabric of  life together, tie up these threads of events and what was a planned 3-week vacation turned into 6 weeks of precious time spent with a dying father, reconnecting with family and friends, making new ones and showing my two sons how deep their roots go. Was it a coincidence or serendipity that the trip was sandwiched between Mother's Day and Father's Day? My father, whose birthday was 5/28/2010, took his last breath at 5:28 p.m. on June 12  and a sister half-way across the world wakes up at the exact time. Even though seven siblings and their undeniably supportive spouses couldn't be together all at once, still they were united in ways unimaginable, each with a role to play, a memory to share.   Forty days later finds half of us reunited with  Mom, married to Dad for 55 years. Yet she does not stand alone. And never will. It's a promise made. Thus far, this particular quilt of life, this particular tapestry of memories makes for a warm cocoon for that cold winter of loneliness and longing. I already miss you Daddy...

    Truly, the river flows on its own...

(pic art by ZenSue)