Going Home

Going Home
By David G. Hack


The old man carefully penned a letter, anticipating that it would be his last formal communication with his children. He deliberately chose his words and carefully formed the letters so they would know he wrote the letter purposely with forethought.


Dear Margaret and Peter,

I am writing this letter as an explanation. I don’t expect you to understand, but I still feel the need to explain. I think understanding comes from seeing through the same eyes, and it will always be impossible for children to see through parents’ eyes, just as I can’t experience life through you.

We have spoken of a generation gap as a negative thing, but it is a given and quite possibly a notable phenomena, for what will be the purpose of living all these years if in the end there is no difference between you at your years and me at mine?

I have collected a few of my things and I’m going to the woods, so to speak. I feel the hands of the clock are definitely sweeping towards midnight and I don’t choose to end my time in the manner I have been living of late.

I know you both thought it best for me to move to this community. But frankly, other than increasing the wealth of the landlords, my being in this place serves no purpose.

The weather is boring. The monotony of perpetual sun and warm weather lulls one into a sedentary acceptance of fading into the background. I long for the vagaries of hot and cold, wet and dry. I want to feel the wind blowing up a storm and smell the clean, fresh air following a lightning strike. I miss the smell of the earth and earthworms following a downpour.

I want to get “snowed in,” to not be able to even get to the store for bread and milk, but to walk in the stillness and beauty of that same snow and experience how it makes the world a clean, quiet place, if only by hiding the decay.

The people here are boring. They have forgotten that to be alive is to wake each day to uncertainty, to the mystery of time unfolding and revealing new challenges with each moment. These people awake to schedules and routines. They awake to mowed lawns and weeded gardens and housekeeping cleaning the windows whether they need it or not.

The circles are closed, like a merry-go-round. Anyone can get on, but you must be willing to take the same ride, whether it’s on the back of a unicorn or a flying goose.

I am removed, untouched. My existence here has no significance. I can be gone tomorrow and I will not be missed. People here just kind of stop and life goes on for the others as if nothing had happened.

I don’t blame you. May you always be motivated by good intentions, but may you always weigh those intentions by the effect on the intended benefactor. I have not benefited from my time here, nor have I been of benefit to anyone else.

Therefore, I have reached a decision to go away. I want to finish my time on this earth touching the earth and being touched by it, by the winds and water. I want to wake knowing I am alive until that day when I wake knowing I am not alive.

I don’t believe the death we speak of with such fear is in fact a fearful thing. I think of it as one more adventure, a great unknowing, a great mystery that we will all learn about by direct experience. It is the one adventure, besides birth, about which we have no choice . It will happen in its time. When it comes, I want to open my arms wide in a welcoming embrace.

And so, my children, I leave you now with whatever memories you have of me. I have enjoyed our time together. I have no regrets and you must not have any, either.

Live each day, live it to the fullest. Stand in the winds of destiny and be prepared to grab whatever comes your way.

I love you!


The old man took a last look around the condo. Everything was in its place. There was no indication that he was anywhere other than the recreation center, the grocery or just out for a walk.

He picked up the old backpack that he had carefully packed with a wide variety of clothing and necessary toiletries for his trip. He strained under the weight for a moment while he adjusted the shoulder straps. When it was balanced, he felt more comfortable and decided that most of the time on his journey he wouldn’t need to carry the bag, but when he did, he would manage quite well.

He walked the three blocks to the nearest strip mall, knowing there was a bus stop nearby. He waited just a short while when a bus arrived. Getting on, the obese driver made a joke about him and his pack.

“Runnin’ away from home, old timer?”

“Something like that,” he mumbled as he paid his fare and went to the back of the bus.

He found it interesting to note as he sat on the bus that there were enough unusual people that he drew no notice at all, except by a small child accompanying her parent/guardian. The little girl looked at the old man and just stared. He tried to make a face or two, but when that got no reaction, he looked out the window at the passing buildings.

Unfortunately he could still see the little girl’s reflection in the glass and she didn’t take her eyes from him. He turned back to her and stuck out his tongue.

“What are you, some kind of pervert?” The parent/guardian attacked. “Don’t look at him, Emily. He’s just a dirty old man.”

The old man looked away once again and sighed. Just a dirty old man, he thought. How sad that a man’s lifetime, a fairly long lifetime can be summed up in just five words.

He turned away once again and rode the rest of the trip unaware of the comings and goings of other passengers. He was lost in his own thoughts.

When the bus finally reached its terminal, the driver saw that the old man was still seated at the back of the bus.

“Hey, buddy. This is as far as we go. You gotta get off.”

“Oh, right. I was just enjoying the ride.”

“I’m glad, man. But the bus don’t go no farther. You gotta get off here.”

“Where is here?” the old man asked.

“This is the terminal. You can get another bus here to take you wherever you want to go.”

“Thanks. You’ve been most helpful.” The old man struggled to his feet, lifted the pack and made his way to the door of the bus.

When he emerged from the bus, the old man found himself in a building open to the street for buses to enter and exit, but closed overhead to the lovely weather the city was prone to have.

The portion of the building assigned to city buses melded into a portion of the building assigned to Greyhound and other commercial long-range companies.

The old man made his way to this section and began deciphering the hieroglyphs of the arrival/departure schedules. He knew vaguely the direction he needed to go. It had been many years and he had always driven the highways himself, but he knew the mountains lie to the north and east of his present position.

From a map on the board showing the routes of all the buses, he picked a route that seemed to go closest to his destination and bought a ticket. The clerk wasn’t interested in him or his destination and accepted his money without comment.

“What time does this bus leave?” he asked the clerk.

“You got about an hour and a half.”

“Thank you.”

The small coffee shop adjoining the depot drew his attention. The smell of fresh coffee and sugary pastries was a very pleasant reminder of his “verboten” list that he was going to ignore in his new freedom. He found an empty table and sat watching people come and go. He looked at the menu board and waited.

“Hey, buddy. You want coffee, you come to the counter. Nobody’s gonna wait on you here.” The curt voice fit the appearance of the woman behind the counter. She didn’t smile or make eye contact and her manner spoke of her belief that she was doing you a favor by being alive.

The old man slowly rose from his chair and looked to the counter and back to his pack occupying the opposite chair at the table.

“Yeh, you’re right. I wouldn’t leave my pack either. Not in a place like this, with people coming and going all the time. Can’t trust nobody. What do you want? I’ll get it for you.”

The old man turned to the voice and saw a disheveled young man with an old face. A smirk lay somewhere in his beard growth and though he tried to hide it, there was intelligence in his eyes.

“Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.” The old man picked up his pack and left the shop. He found a bench in the waiting room and settled in once again for his wait. He positioned himself so he could see the clock on the wall, sat his pack on the bench beside him, linked his arm through the strap and leaned against the pack like a giant pillow. He wanted to close his eyes for a moment, just a moment, ten minutes at most, but he was fearful of missing the bus.

People continually trickled into the waiting room and because no one was leaving, the crowds impinged on the old man’s comfort. He felt that everyone was watching him, and he was being viewed not as a person with the same rights to privacy as anyone else, but as an object to be simultaneously pitied, scorned or ignored.

There was still time before the bus was scheduled to leave, so the old man decided that his best refuge lie in sleep or at least as close to sleep as he could achieve under the circumstances. He clutched his bag tighter and closed his eyes to rest.


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The gravel road left the highway and meandered through the woods for several miles, always seeking the path of least incline. At some imperceptible point, the gravel turned to dirt and became a single lane with two rutted tracks that eventually dead-ended at the small lake.

The lake was the perfect size for canoes or kayaks and perhaps a john boat with a five horse motor. There were plenty of fish, but the size of the lake and its remoteness kept most people away.

From the lake to the summit of the hill, a walking trail wove its way for another mile. It was not always an easy walk, but a worthwhile trip for the splendid view afforded by the peak.

Half way up the hill a small cabin sat perched on poles with steps leading to the front porch. The lake was visible from the porch through the trees, but the cabin could not be seen. Many visitors had come to the lake and left without even knowing the cabin existed.

The old man saw the cabin and smiled. This was his favorite season to be here – getting colder. The air was crisp and fresh. He felt clean, rejuvenated, invigorated. Most of the leaves that would fall had done so. Those that remained filtered the sunlight along with the evergreens and the mottled light gave the woods a sparkle that reminded the old man of surreal artworks of artists long dead.

After his marriage, the old man had come here only once with his wife, rest her soul. She had been a dear and wonderful woman, but the cabin held no place in her heart. The cabin had been built by the old man’s old man, and as a youth he had gone there as much as he possibly could.

It was an unfinished shell consisting of two rooms, a general living space where food preparation, eating and lounging occurred, a separate sleeping space with a double bed and dresser, topped by a platform type loft that served as storage or extra sleeping as needed. A small cast iron wood stove that also served as a cooking surface heated the whole cabin.

A person’s bodily elimination needs were met by a small outhouse a short distance into the woods.

The old man had come to this place only once with his wife and their two children. The children, Peter and Margaret, were young, and the old man hoped to instill in them a sense of wonder concerning nature and a life that could be lived very simply. The trip had been a total disaster and the family had never repeated the effort.

The tales he told of the hideaway had been so astonishing that the wife had finally relinquished her reservations and agreed to the trip. Her mood became dampened almost immediately, however, as the road became a rutted track that simply ended.

A rain shower began at that point and the small group had to carry their provisions the half mile uphill to the cabin. The glorious picture of a woodsy retreat was buried under cobwebs that had to be cleared before his wife and the children would enter. They huddled, wet and unhappy on the front porch while the old man cleared the webs and hurriedly attempted to get a fire lit in the small stove.

The idyllic vacation the old man had envisioned evaporated with each passing moment and he realized it was a mistake to have come. However, it was too late in the day to return, so they would need to spend the night and would return to the city the next morning.

He apologized repeatedly and tried to make the best of the situation. He drug out an old porcelain thunder mug that badly needed to be ridded of spiders and their webs. His wife and daughter would be spared the indignity of traveling to the outhouse in the night.

The family dined on dry foods, crackers and such they had brought with them. The old man’s wife refused to attempt to cook with the blackened pots and pans that hung in the kitchen space. The old man would have prepared something for the group, but knew deep down that they would not have eaten his fare, and so he decided not to waste the time, energy or food.

The kids would not leave his wife’s side, so the three of them huddled the night away on the bed, waiting for morning light, while the old man fretted and stewed in a sleeping bag until he finally fell into a fitful sleep.

He dreamed that night as never before. The reality of the dream was something to behold. His father was there and he and his old man had a wonderful time on the hill, on the lake, in the cabin. There’s was El Dorado and millions of people clamored for the directions to find them, but they held the secret from all else

They lived and thrived in the cabin on the hill in the woods. They caught fish in the lake and grew a few vegetables in a small clearing to supplement their diet. They went to a nearby village once a week to buy other essentials they needed. However, whenever they were followed back to the cabin, they were allusive enough in their return that trackers got tired of their meanderings through the woods and gave up trying to find the cabin.

All this and more the old man dreamed that night his wife and children divorced themselves from his adventure. When he awoke, he knew it was a mistake to have brought them to his special place, that it was intended for him alone and not to be shared.

In the morning, without accusation, without recrimination, and without delay the small group gathered their belongings and made the trek down the hill to their waiting car. They stopped at a café in the nearest village and had breakfast. The children slept in the back seat on the trip home, and he and she made small talk about the countryside and acted as though the trip to the cabin had never occurred.


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Peter was almost annoyed by the vibration of the phone in his pocket. Because he was about to close the business meeting, he chose to ignore the phone for a few more minutes until he could deal with whatever it promised without interruption.

“It’s agreed then that we contact Berkhoff in New York and have him contact the lawyers handling the merger? He’s to find out the latest offer and sweeten the pie a bit. Agreed?

“Agreed.”

“Everyone?”

“Agreed, Peter. I think we have a win/win situation here. I think I smell a fat bonus coming our way.”

“Well, then. That wraps this up. Thank you all for your efforts. You’re a great team to work with, and you can be sure your work will be rewarded.”

“Thanks, Peter.”

On his way back to his office from the conference room, Peter checked his phone. The number was familiar, his sister, Margaret. When he was settled with a cup of coffee, he returned her call, knowing what she wanted before he even talked with her.

“Hello, Maggie.

“Yes, I know. It’s been a while. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?

“Dad? No, I haven’t seen him in, well, it’s been a while.

“No. He hasn’t called for a few days, and I’ve been locked into a couple of heavy deals that have tied me to this desk.

“I know, I know. But, honestly, a fellow’s got to earn a living, and if I don’t keep on top of it, well, you know what can happen.

“No, I don’t think you have cause to worry. You know Dad. Independent as the day is long.

“Look, after I wrap things up here, I’ll give him a call. As soon as I contact him, I’ll let you know.

“Promise.

“How’s Jack and the kids?

“Super. Give them my best.

“Sarah? No, we split.

“Mutual, I think. We just had different agendas.

“You know me.

“Right. Say, look. I have another call I have to take. Business waits for no one.

“Take care. Thanks for the heads up on Dad. I’ll get back to you.

“Love and kisses.

“Bye.”

Peter hung up and put a note on his PDA. “Call Dad.” He was absorbed in business the rest of the afternoon and didn’t give Margaret’s call a second thought.


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Margaret put the finishing touches on the family meal while she thought of her call to Peter about their father. The distance that separated them made it easy to let days go by without contact. It had been a mutual decision that Dad move to the condo in warm, sunny Southern California. Meanwhile, she held down the fort in the Midwest and communicated by phone, card, and email, although her father had not really gotten into using the computer for much.

When Margaret didn’t hear from her father for days, she assumed that all was well and that Peter was seeing to Dad’s needs. However, Dad had always been terribly independent and rarely called on anyone for help, especially the kids. He had always argued that he could take care of himself and when he couldn’t, he planned to just disappear.

It was difficult to get him to agree to move to the condo, but Peter and Margaret convinced him that they would not interfere with his life more than they already were and the condo would allow him more freedom to do those things he enjoyed.

“Kids, dinner’s ready!”

Margaret took the ‘el dente’ spaghetti from the stove and poured it into the strainer. She removed the fresh garlic bread from the oven, placed it in a napkin-lined basket and placed it on the dining room table.

“Kids, Jack, dinner!”

Margaret took the two glasses of Chianti she had poured for Jack and herself and placed them on the table. Everything was in place as the family gathered and she began serving the spaghetti.

“I talked to Peter today.”

“How is he? Is he still with Sarah?”

“No. Surprised?”

“Not really. How did you happen to talk with him?”

“I called him. I’ve tried to reach Dad for a couple of days now. Can’t seem to catch him at home, so I called Peter to see if he’s seen him.”

“And?”

“Nothing. He’s neither seen nor talked with him. I had so hoped that when Dad moved out there, Peter would do a better job of keeping in touch.”

“You know, I’m not sure your brother will ever be in touch with anyone. He’s kind of in his own little world.”

“Jack, please.”

“I’m not trying to be unkind, Margaret. But, you know. It’s like father, like son.”

“Dad wasn’t really in his own . . .”

“Margaret?”

“Well, maybe he was. Sometimes, though, I think he did it because the rest of us were into our own things and never really paid much attention to what he wanted.”

“Your mother certainly took care of him. Practically did everything for him.”

“That’s just it. She did everything. Dad just kind of shifted into neutral and went along for the ride. Sometimes I’d look at him and he’d smile like always, but his eyes would be focused far away. I wasn’t sure he was even seeing me.”

“I’ve seen that same look on Peter.”

“Mommy, are we going to go see Grandpa?”

“Maybe, honey. Maybe we’ll go out there at Christmas time.”


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Peter didn’t really start to worry for a couple of days. He tried to reach his father on the phone a couple of times, but went back to business as soon as he hung up. On Sunday he decided to make the trip and go to his father’s condo.

He let himself into his father’s place with his own key. He was a bit afraid of what he might find and entered slowly. Everything, however, was in its place. Cleaned, spotless really, plants watered. He had to admit that service was a good one, even if it cost an arm and a leg.

He moved from room to room looking for anything that might be out of order. Nothing. At last he entered the bedroom and saw the envelope on the night stand. Peter sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the envelope for a long time before opening it. He had a notion of what it contained and he didn’t want to confirm his suspicions.

At last, Peter opened the letter and read its contents. Then he reread it, slowly. For a person used to making snap business decisions involving large sums of money, it took Peter a long time to decide his next course of action. He sat on the edge of the bed, loosely holding the letter and looked at the phone, trying to decide whom to call. His fingers searched for and found Margaret’s number.

“You have reached the home of Margaret, Jack and children. We are unable to come to the phone right now. Please leave your name, number and a short message and we’ll return your call as soon as we can.”

“Hi, Margaret. This is Peter. Give me a call.”

Peter couldn’t think of a way to tell an answering machine what he found. Without a question at the other end, he didn’t know what to say.

Peter began searching the condo for a clue to where his father might really have gone. “To the woods” was nebulous at best. What he found or rather didn’t find was disconcerting. There was no luggage missing. He had bought a matched set for his father had moved to the condo, “to facilitate visits to friends and to Margaret.” All of the pieces of the luggage were in the closet, untouched.

Peter could see no clothes that were missing. He didn’t know his father’s wardrobe completely, but there were no vacant hangers at all. His drawers appeared full as well. The most alarming discovery was that the bottles of his father’s heart medication were still in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.

When Peter searched the nightstand by his dad’s bed, he found the old metal lockbox that he vaguely remembered going through as a child. It always held mysterious items of no significance, watches that didn’t work, keys that had no locks, identification cards that were outdated. Peter had invented stories to go with each item and as he found and prepared to open the box, he remembered them and wondered why he had never asked his father about the items and why he kept them.

In addition to the expected junk, Peter found his father’s wallet. In it was a driver’s license used as a photo id since he no longer drove, a credit card that Peter urged his father to carry “for emergencies,” his dad’s medicare card and emergency card listing his medical condition and medications.

Peter pictured his father wandering somewhere without any identification. He quickly called his sister once again.

“Margaret. Please call me as soon as you can. I’m worried about Dad.”


“I’d like to file a missing person report. I’ve never done this before, so I’m not quite sure how to go about it.”

“It’s simple really. Who’s missing”

“My father.”

“Name?”

“Here’s his photo ID. It has all the pertinent information on it.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Well, I guess I was last month. We had lunch on my birthday. That would make it the 20th.”

“Last month. When was the last time you talked to him?”

“Well, it’s been a couple of weeks. I’ve had a couple of business deals that have tied me up the past couple of weeks, but I think we talked about two weeks ago.”

“Let me get this right. You haven’t seen your father since last month and haven’t talked to him for two weeks. Now what makes you think he’s missing?”

“I haven’t been able to get him on the phone. I went to his condo and found this letter and his wallet and medication was there.”

“Let me see the letter.”

“My sister talks to Dad usually every week. She called the other day to say she hasn’t been able to reach him either.”

“Could he have gone somewhere, like he says in this letter?”

“He wouldn’t have just taken off without letting us know or taking his identification or medicine. He just wouldn’t.”

“Have you checked with his bank? Has he made any large withdrawals or anything unusual?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you checked the hospitals?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Well, suppose he just decided to go out one day, walk around the block. And suppose he had a heart attack or a stroke or something. He’s how old? 75? That’s possible. Well, without an ID, he’d be picked up, but the hospital wouldn’t know anything about him, so he’d be admitted as a John Doe. That happens.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“And suppose, God forbid, that the worst happened. Suppose, God forbid, he died. He’d be taken to the morgue. They’d determine cause of death and if it was a natural cause death, then he’d be tagged as a John Doe. You should also check the morgue.”

“Good God.”

“You have some checking to do. In the meantime, I’ll post this as a possible missing person, whereabouts unknown. If you don’t return with some evidence that your father is really missing and not just off visiting friends or relatives or maybe on a fishing trip, then the report will die here.”

“That’s all you’re going to do?”

“What do you want me to do? Do you know how many people fit this man’s description? He could be anywhere. You have no idea where he might have gone. You don’t really even know he is missing. He might be home by now, sitting in front of the TV, having a beer. You don’t know, and you know what, that’s really sad. So until you do know something, that’s as much sympathy as the police department is going to give you. Now get out of here and leave me alone.”


Peter returned to his father’s condo, let himself in and saw that nothing had changed since he had been there earlier. He went to the refrigerator, surveyed the available beverages, selected a bottled water and considered his course of action. He felt totally a fish out of water. Decisions were easy to Peter. He made much money on quick decision business deals. But for some reason, he was on hold.

Peter picked up his phone to call Margaret again, then sat it down without dialing. He could do this, he told himself.

He went to his father’s most comfortable chair, sat back, put his feet up and took a long pull on the water bottle. Peter had just closed his eyes for a moment when the lock box flashed before him. He shook his head to clear this “vision,” but something told him to go to the nightstand and search through the old metal box once more.

He almost felt fear as he held the lock box in his lap, reluctant to open it. Something told him that he was about to take a journey that would change his life forever and he was unsure that he wanted to begin. Finally, with a deep breath, he opened the box.

He saw the same old watches, keys, and miscellaneous papers. But then he saw the small red envelope with a snap closure and lettering indicating that the enclosed key was to a safety deposit box, number “333.” Peter had not been aware that his father had a safety deposit box and could only assume that it was at the bank where Peter was a cosigner of his father’s accounts.

“Perhaps this is where I begin,” Peter said to himself. He left the condo and drove to the bank.

Peter showed the teller his identification and asked for a printout of all transactions for the past month. “My father is away for a while and I’m to look after his affairs while he’s gone. I’d also like to check out this safety deposit box while I’m here.”

Peter shoved the envelope across to the teller who excused herself for a moment.

“I’m sorry, but our records show that only your father has access to this box. You need to have his approval and your signature must be on file for you to open the box. Bank policy.”

“There’s no way I can see what’s in the box?”

“No, I’m sorry, sir.”

Peter left the bank with the statement printout and noted that there was a $500 cash withdrawal, but that everything else seemed intact. His father had most of his payments automatically made from his account, so there were very few other entries. He usually made a significant cash withdrawal and that was the money he used for his day to day expenses.

Peter returned home intent on finding where his father might be. For the first time in years, perhaps in his life, his father became his single focus.

His first calls were to the area hospitals. No one fitting his father’s description had been admitted. Then he slowly, reluctantly looked up the number for the county medical examiner’s office.

“Hello. Is this the place where unidentified bodies . . .? where bodies of unidentified . . .? Is this the place . . .? deep breath My father is missing, has been for a couple of weeks. Do you have any unidentified old men there? He would be 75 years old, white hair, mustache. You do? Can I come see if it’s my father? He’s been missing for a couple of weeks, wasn’t carrying his identification. Thank you. Oh, how late are you open? Thank you.”

Peter hung up the phone and was tempted to call Margaret. This wasn’t a task that he looked forward to completing. Then he decided it would be best to wait. He could do this alone.


“Except for police, we don’t usually have many visitors. You’d be surprised at the number of stiffs that come through here, unknown, unwanted. Let’s see now, you say your father was 75? White hair? There are two that roughly match that description. Sure you want to do this? Most people don’t have the stomach for it. After a few days, even refrigerated, bodies don’t look too pretty. Let me see, now. Right over here. Yes, this is one of the possibilities. Found down by the river, as I understand it. Police just thought he was a transient, homeless type, you know? No ID. No nothin’. Just a bag with clothes and things. Stand back. They don’t smell too bad, yet. But when you don’t work down here, it can still be kind of a shock. Well?”

Peter took a long look at the body.

“No. That’s not him. That’s not my father.”

“OK. Well, I have one more possibility. Found at the bus station. Backpack full of belongings. But no ID. Like he was taking a trip, but didn’t want anybody to know who he was. Know what I mean? Nice stuff, tho. Certainly no bum here. Died of a heart attack. Here we are. This him?”

Even before he looked, Peter pictured his father on the table before him. Cold. Pale. Dead. A thousand regrets converged behind his eyes, squeezing the optic nerve, making vision difficult. Peter forced himself to focus and saw his father’s body. His face was peaceful, calm and there was almost a smile on his lips.

“Yes. That’s him. That’s my father.”

“Yes, well. I have some paper work that you need to fill out. Then you can have him picked up and taken away. If you’d just step into the waiting room, I’ll be right with you.”

Peter did as he was told and his mind reeled with questions about how to proceed.

“Margaret? Are you sitting down? I . . . uhh . . . I found him. He was at the bus station. Heart attack. That’s about all I know. If you could come, we could decide what to do. Thanks, Margaret.”


Margaret was having trouble getting the whole picture as she and Jack and their two kids rode with Peter in a rented SUV down a winding, narrow, unpaved road that seemed to be going nowhere.

“Where are we going, Peter?”

“You’ll see in a few minutes.”

“How do you even know where we are going?”

“I think we were here before. Years ago. I found some papers in a lockbox at the bank. Dad evidently retained ownership of this property for all these years. The deed in the lockbox gave the coordinates to this land. I simply plugged in the numbers and printed a map.”

“But he never said anything.”

“I guess he felt we wouldn’t have cared. And he was probably right.”

The SUV reached the end of the road and the group got out. The lake sparkled in the sunlight and the cool breeze caused the tree leaves to whisper a welcome. There was something vaguely familiar about the surroundings although neither Peter nor Margaret could remember being here.

“I think we’re to go up this hill,” Peter said as he found a faint remnant of a trail.

“What are we doing here, Peter?”

“I think this is where Dad was headed when he . . . when he died. It just made sense to me that we should finish his journey for him.”

The small group climbed the hill and soon came to the remains of a small cabin. Suddenly pictures from the past flooded Peter’s and Margaret’s memories. They simultaneously remembered when they had been at this cabin and the turmoil that trip had caused.

Peter took off the backpack he had been carrying and took a small urn from it.

“I think it’s proper that Dad is returned to this place. He wanted to be here so many years ago. He chose this place and though he couldn’t be here physically, he hung on to it. It’s the right thing for us to do to return him here.”

With these words Peter opened the urn and let the gentle breeze greet his father and welcome him home.